Ourobouros
by OlympiaManet2003
Summary: A tale of moral relativism and baked goods. Parody. SSHG, BLV
1. Tea time

Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns everything, I only wish I did.  
  
Ourobouros – Chapter 1.  
  
Severus Snape's magnificent nose was posed precipitously over a tea-cup. He sniffed. He drank. And just as he was relaxing back into the curves of the settee, and wondering idly whether or not it was really necessary to keep pets in the foyer (and deciding that while they did add a certain amount of drama, they were probably more trouble than they were worth) his employer stepped into the room. He was, Severus mused, growing much older, frailer, limping a little - not that you'd notice if you didn't know him well, but yes, it was there - but then, the events of the past years could take a toll on anyone's abilities. Nonetheless, as the older wizard descended into the chair across from him, Severus noted with mute satisfaction, that his eyes –his ancient, glittering eyes – twinkled just as brightly as they always had.  
  
"Severus, my boy." He said "Would you like a lemon drop?"  
  
"Good God." Replied Severus "You'd better be careful, people will think you're turning into Dumbledore."  
  
"I rather think the reptilian nose might give him away." Replied a stately brunette who entered carrying a fresh pot of jam.  
  
"Bella!" Said Voldemort. "And strawberry jam, too. Beautiful. You've outdone yourself, really – Severus, tell Bella she's outdone herself."  
  
"If murder and decapitation fail to work out, I'm sure you have a promising career in catering." Sneered Severus.  
  
"Cheeky monkey." Replied Bellatrix, as she swept over to Snape and bent down, lightly kissing his forehead. "We've missed you. We really have. It's not healthy, staying cooped up in those dungeons all the time, I think it must play havoc with your psyche. And frankly, I don't like what it does for your hygiene, either."  
  
Severus pouted into his teacup.  
  
"Oh, don't pout, Sevvie. You know you'll always be my favorite underling. I just wish you'd get out sometime, plot a little, wreck a little mayhem, pillage a village, it's chicken soup for the Slytherin soul. I don't see how you can stand Hogwarts..."  
  
"Well, I'm isolated. That does help."  
  
"Still. Children. Beastly brats, never liked them even when I was a child. I think you should kill them all and eat them."  
  
"Now, now Bella..." Murmured Voldemort. "Severus doesn't mind his work, he's very good at what he does, and it allows us a marvelous link into..."  
  
"Oh!" Said Severus, waving a hand dismissively "Don't worry about it, I think the same thing two, three times a day, really. Did I tell you about what Neville Longbottom did last week..."  
  
"I hated his mother." Muttered Bellatrix, as she rearranged the pyramid of petit fours, poking a sprinkle off a frosted petal with a fingernail.  
  
"He almost killed another student. Again. Let a fly crawl into his potion, which serves to turn it into a very powerful draught..."  
  
"Just hated her. Horrible woman. Frank, too. I mean these petty little bourgeois, anti-intellectual nye-kulturi... so Gryffindor..."  
  
"You know." Replied Severus, twisting to face Bellatrix directly, "If you hadn't gotten all feisty with them, Dumbledore wouldn't feel so paternal towards Neville, and he wouldn't persist in putting him in my class. I have you to blame for this, really."  
  
"Sorry." Said Bellatrix. She looked pensive for a moment. Then she giggled. "No. Really. I'm sorry. For your sake. I mean it. Very poor taste on my part."  
  
"For the moment, I will accept your apology."  
  
"How awfully generous of you."  
  
"Bella." Said Voldemort, laying his raspberry coated scone down on the edge of his plate "Come sit. You've been hovering around all afternoon. Come here." He patted his cushion, the protruding bones and sinews of his hands glinting dully against the china.  
  
"I can't. I'm meeting Narcissa. We're going shopping."  
  
"I thought you hated Narcissa." Replied Voldemort.  
  
"I never said that."  
  
"You said she was a mealy mouthed illiterate twat." Replied Severus.  
  
"Well, I never said I was fond of her, either. But she's not disagreeable, she just doesn't speak. I like Lucius. But really, it's so hard to find any kind of female company when you're a Death Eater... I don't know if you noticed but there's a decided gender imbalance."  
  
"There is in Slytherin house, too." Replied Severus. "It's interesting. Perhaps something to do with female feelings about power?"  
  
"Well, there isn't any Uberfraulein prototype."  
  
"Probably because Nietzsche hated women." Replied Severus. "I'm sure he'd have let you go, though. You're such a nice little house-frau, you do such lovely, lovely teas.  
  
"You know." Replied Bellatrix, as she gathered up the train of her robes and began gliding towards the door, "You're running the serious risk of not being my favorite underling anymore."  
  
"Perish the thought!" Replied Snape.  
  
"Bella?" Called Voldemort "Do you think you could make it back in time for a late dinner? Midnight munch? You can bring your husband, if you like. I could make something myself, maybe a nice omelet? There's so much I need to go over with you."  
  
"Rudolphus is away...somewhere... and I don't know if I can. After shopping I've got a traitor to deal with, I'll see how it works out. It shouldn't take too long. I'll try. I'll really try."  
  
"Oh! That's right." Voldemort exclaimed, snapping his talons. "I meant to ask. After you get done with him, could you chop off his fingers and bring them back? Nagini has gotten to be such a finicky eater lately."  
  
"Of course."  
  
"You're an angel."  
  
"One with major indiscretions." She replied, and then, with a quick stride she crossed the room and gave Voldemort a determined kiss on his reptilian slit of a nose. "I have to go. Really. I'll try to be amazingly quick; I should make it by about 11:00."  
  
Voldemort flickered his forked tongue over her hand before she swept out of the room, shutting the iron slab behind her.  
  
"She's adorable, isn't she?" Asked Voldemort. "I mean, and a very competent Death Eater..."  
  
"I've always wondered," Said Severus, pouring himself a fresh cup of tea. "What exactly is your relationship with her?"  
  
"Oh, my dear boy. If I only knew." Voldemort shrugged. "It's actually a good point she brought up, about the gender imbalance, it's been one I've been meaning to talk over with you."  
  
"Well, I think certainly something could be gained by having more females enter into our society. No need for us to be labeled as misogynistic along with everything else. Did you have anyone in mind?"  
  
"Well, actually, it's a student of yours."  
  
"No, no, don't take the Parkinson girl, I know Lucius may have mentioned her, but believe me, it's a terrible idea."  
  
"Oh, no, not her at all. You know a Hermione Granger, don't you?"  
  
Snape was silent.  
  
"She's quite brilliant, from what I'm told. Could help in the planning stages of things, even if she didn't want to get involved in brute force. Not everyone really has wherewithal, no offense intended, naturally."  
  
Snape remained silent, his fingers clutching his teacup with increased vigor.  
  
"It would be quite a coup, too, don't you think? Harry Potter's little friend succumbing to the lure of the Death Eaters... I mean, you know I love publicity... but no, it's not just that, I think she'd be excellent."  
  
Snape's still silent frame was growing rigid.  
  
"Bella would like her. I mean, you must see the parallels between them, both intelligent women secondary and loyal to a very powerful man – warriors, really – and besides, don't you think she must be terribly repressed? I mean, well, I suppose she is a Gryffindor, but she never is really allowed to exercise her own talents, she's always overshadowed by Harry or the other one. And she's already revered an agreeable figure by the media. She'd really put a friendly face on the Death Eater skull. She could re-vamp our whole image. It's a good idea, don't you think?"  
  
Severus's teacup went back to its saucer. "I think, my Lord, I think we need to... to talk about this."  
  
"You don't like it? Is she not what I'd hoped? Mentally defective?"  
  
"No, no, she's talented, I grant you. But she's... she's enormously Gryffindor."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I don't know, my Lord, that you ever quite grasped the subtleties – or I should say the blatant nature - of the Gryffindor mentality."  
  
"No? Well, I am so terribly Slytherin. Perhaps not. I feel almost certain you're about to explain it to me, though. Before you do, could you pass one of those cupcakes? With the rainbow frosting."  
  
Severus passed a cupcake.  
  
"You see, my Lord, they do want to win, but they want to win in such a way that everyone will admire them. And they want to be loved by everyone, not just by an elite few. If you were explain to her that history could be re- written after our victory, that she would be remembered and beloved by progeny – if not by her peers – it would make no sense to her. Likewise, they're not really... they wouldn't appreciate the whole notion of an elite society. They don't group people the way we do... to us, obviously, people are amusing or tedious, to them there are these ludicrous categories of 'good' and 'bad' with very little grey area in between, it's part of what makes them such repellant people."  
  
"But she's a reader, isn't she Severus? Reading can breed a whole host of agreeable sins, moral relativism among them."  
  
Snape chuckled, and took a long draught of tea. "Yes. Yes, that is true. But what she reads... Hogwarts: A History isn't exactly giving her any insights into the infinite layers and complexities of the human soul."  
  
"Then toss her some Chekhov and tell her to get cracking."  
  
"That's an idea, but I think there might be more difficulties to it. Our public relations, for instance, have always left something to be desired."  
  
"Well, we do kill people, Severus. It occurs to me that we really do kill an awful lot of people. Not, of course, just to be rebellious as the press is so inclined to make out. I like to believe, myself, that we've never killed anyone who hasn't posed a direct and immediate threat to either the wizarding world at large or at the very least to the well being of our followers."  
  
"Of course not. But you'll have a very difficult time making the girl understand that. Bear in mind that her perception of us has come to her courtesy of a fifteen year old boy of middling intellect."  
  
"Such a pity about that. I tried to get through to him last year, you knew that, though. The most it ever did was panic him that I got happy when my followers came back from that hellhole – I mean, of course I was happy, how could I not be... I'm sorry, Severus. I mean, we do need to kill the Potter boy, he could destroy the movement, and that will take time...but I digress."  
  
"Well, I think it's more than that, every group of freedom fighters does kill people. It's probably more the prejudice allusions that would give her pause, she's a mudblood, you know."  
  
Voldemort raised the remains of his eyebrow.  
  
"Some of the finest people I know are muggle borns. Myself, for instance."  
  
"Yes, but no one remembers that about you. Which we can credit to Lucius, I'm afraid, the whole pureblood notion has spiraled wildly out of control."  
  
"Well, I do endorse a policy of separatism between muggle and wizarding culture, and think the mixture of the two only puts both groups in danger. You've always felt strongly about that, too. And the only way to really separate the two worlds is to stop the admission of more muggle borns into the wizarding schools. It's not that I view them as a lesser race, but I certainly see the inevitable outcome of meshing the cultures as resulting in their being dragged into some wizarding dilemmas which, as muggles they have no capacity to deal with. Can't you just sit down and explain that to her nicely?"  
  
"I really wish I could. But I don't think things are quite that easy."  
  
"Severus, I'm really quite set on this. She'd be a great asset, for quite a lot of reasons. You could always seduce her, you know."  
  
Severus looked absolutely horrified.  
  
"Joking! She's seventeen. I can't believe you think I'd, well... not that you're not a Byronic hero, but, well, that would be perverse. Although if you wanted, I wouldn't pass moral judgment on you – far be it from me, I leave those pretensions to Dumbledore. It's not as though she couldn't find you appealing, you know, your love life is always a little stagnant, but many women have overcome their initial aversion to unattractive men, and in their eyes the greasy hair becomes glossy and sleek..."  
  
"I... no. Never."  
  
"It's not altogether a bad idea, though. Be nice to her. She's probably a little lonely. You're a little lonely. You're both brilliant. You're stuck in a castle with no intellectual equals. It might make for a fine friendship...and after you got to know each other you could explain our real agenda, and what fuzzy, charming people we are. Maybe we could send her a cake. Do you think she'd like a cake?"  
  
"Maybe. Not any time soon."  
  
"Oh, good. And do give her some Chekhov, I think it helps. Now, you probably have to run along. And if Dumbledore asks, we raped a lush mudblood. And we drank blood, not tea, blood. Out of a mudblood's skull."  
  
"As always. And if it's not too much bother, would you mind?"  
  
"Crucio again, Severus? You know, that's really so much more a Bella thing. Seriously, even if I were a madman I wouldn't do it all the time..."  
  
"I think it adds a certain element of realism... and it's because I wouldn't rape the mudblood like the rest of you savages."  
  
"You're almost too noble. Alright. Crucio."  
  
Severus twitched convulsively on the marble floors. Voldemort looked decidedly squeamish.  
  
"Alright." Said Voldemort. "That's enough. Get up. You're alright? Come give me a hug."  
  
The two men embraced, in a masculine, but heartwarming fashion. Snape began limping off towards the door.  
  
"And Severus?" Voldemort called. "I'll have you know I was the original lemon drop aficionado. They're muggle, you see. Loads around the orphanage. Loads." 


	2. Strange Meeting

She did not want gentility or softness. That he gave to every woman he was with. She wanted the unleashed passion he guarded so closely. She wanted him to lose control and make love to her as he did to no other woman. With her own desire raging through her, and the love she harbored so deeply in her heart for him, it was easy to be bold. She slipped her hand down between his legs and –  
  
Hermione Granger's head jerked up. She could almost have sworn she heard something, but, she imagined she might be the tiniest bit paranoid. Still it... yes, those were footsteps. And wasn't that Professor Snape's rumpled form careening back and forth between the walls?  
  
"Oh my God," thought Hermione, "he's going to think I've been reading porn!"  
  
Quickly she shuffled The Predilections and Passions of Pygmalion's Piquant Protégé under the hem of her robe. An action brilliantly timed, as it was a mere five seconds later that Severus Snape fell in a bleeding heap at her feet.  
  
"Oh, sir!" she exclaimed, poking his abdomen with her germ riddled toe.  
  
"I suppose you'd like to heal me, Miss Granger? Strip my robes from my maimed, needy – oh, so needy - body and apply a certain soft touch, a woman's touch if you will..."  
  
"But I'm not certified! That's a really awful idea, sir. I'd probably kill you. Are you dying? I could run get Madame Promfrey."  
  
"No, actually I'm fine. I just felt it was the proper thing to say, considering the situation. I am a Slytherin after all. Etiquette is in our blood. Though we have been known to overcome it when in the presence of cretins."  
  
"Oh. Well, I appreciate that. It's very sweet of you, really. But I don't have anywhere near the talent, really, years of training go into that, and I simply haven't the long term stamina, well, not at present, that's not to say that I never will, I've put some quite serious consideration into the prospect of medi-witching but...."  
  
"I understand, Miss Granger. I'm very glad you declined. Honestly, it would have been very awkward had you tried to heal me."  
  
"Is it Crucio again, sir?"  
  
"Yes. Yes, it's Crucio."  
  
"Oh, poor, poor Professor Snape! The monster! How can you bear it?"  
  
"Much less painful than you'd expect, actually. Rather like having rubber bands snapped at you, annoying, certainly, and it makes for an intensely panicked moment, but no long term damage."  
  
"But Harry said..."  
  
"I think, if we were to shift aside his tendency towards the melodramatic, that Mr. Potter could well have suffered from an anxiety attack. It's not unnatural, really; he expected the pain to be enormous, and as such he experienced enormous pain. Take, for instance, the case of Augurey birds – as many wizards thought that their cry predicted death, upon hearing it they suffered heart attacks and died."  
  
"But modern research tells us that Auguries only cry to predict rain."  
  
"Precisely, Miss Granger."  
  
"But Neville's parents..."  
  
"They were always, to put it mildly, peculiar... they were a little unhinged to begin with, you know. It really wouldn't have taken a whole hell of a lot. I don't mean to be rude, but why are you down here, Miss Granger? Lost on your way to the library, I suppose?"  
  
"No... no, actually I come down here every night. You've just never noticed me. That's alright, I'm really very good at blending in with the dank scenery."  
  
"Because you want to hear about Death Eater exploits when I discuss them loudly in my bedchambers?"  
  
"No. Well, not that that isn't interesting, I'm sure it is, but I just need a quiet place to read. And people aren't usually down here. They're a little afraid of you, you know."  
  
"But you don't, in fact, have a book with you now, do you?"  
  
It was moments like these that Hermione was unspeakably grateful for the nimble dexterity of her young mind. "No," she said, "that's because there are some books I know so well that I don't need to have them in front of me, anymore. Their words are my soul. And I can read my soul simply by staring intently at this bare wall. Souls are like that."  
  
"Really. That's very odd. Well, carry on then, Miss Granger."  
  
"Thank you, sir. I'm just going to sit here. Staring at the wall. My soul. The wall."  
  
"Yes. Very odd. I'm going to bed, now. Twenty points from Gryffindor for being out past curfew. Good night, Miss Granger."  
  
Hermione reached under her robes to withdraw her novel, but as she watched him go, she couldn't help noticing that his back bore a striking resemblance to the Duke of Reddington's from The Lascivious Libertine Lusts of Luxurious Lady Liane. "Hmm," she thought, "It must be the robes."  
  
Snape awoke the next morning staring at the egg shaped face and somehow yolky lips of Minerva McGonagall. She peered at him intently.  
  
"Must you do that?" he asked.  
  
"The headmaster wants to see you."  
  
"Could I have five more minutes?"  
  
"Immediately, Severus."  
  
"May I get dressed?"  
  
"I suppose so."  
  
"Will you leave?"  
  
"I'll be waiting outside. Don't try anything funny."  
  
As Minerva shut the door behind her, Severus muttered a myriad of creative obscenities, implying that she had been conceived due to her mother's incestuous relationship with a goat. His mood was elevated somewhat as he opened his dresser doors to reveal rows of crisp, pristine, white boxer shorts. "Mmm," thought Snape, "there really is nothing I enjoy more than a good clean pair of white boxers." He zipped up the rest of his clothing quickly, and strode forth to meet Minerva in the hallway.  
  
"Headmaster Dumbledore may think you've reformed," snarled McGonagall, "but I see right through you, Severus Snape. Right through you like... like glass."  
  
"Really?" drawled Snape, "tell me, do you always call him Headmaster Dumbledore? Even in more intimate situations? I think that must cast the most bizarre air on the whole milieu."  
  
"Don't try any of your shit with me, Severus."  
  
"Now, now, don't get catty Minerva..."  
  
After an interminably long walk, Severus reached Headmaster Dumbledore's office, where he was informed that the headmaster was running late. He proceeded to wait for a little over half-an-hour. As he sat outside, he thought about how punctual the Dark Lord was. He thought about cupcakes. He thought about how Crucio could make him feel a little giddy and tingly. And just as he was nodding off to a pleasurable dream about chocolate chip scones and world domination, the door was flung open before him and Molly Weasley ran down the stairs, waving her hands about wildly. Dumbledore emerged leisurely behind her, his robes covered in gold dust, twinkling radiantly.  
  
"Severus!" he exclaimed, ushering Snape into his office, "do come in."  
  
As Severus sat down, he watched Fawkes out of the corner of his eye, who was tearing a young rat to shreds with his beak. A bit awkward perhaps - Suggestion: As Severus sat down, he watched Fawkes out of the corner of his eye; the bird was tearing a young rat to shreds with his beak.  
  
"I'm sorry I'm late," remarked Dumbledore, "but it's Molly Weasley. She's trying another petition about proper student teacher relations. Poor woman simply doesn't seem to understand how things are done at Hogwarts."  
  
"Oh dear," said Severus, "is it Professor Binns, again?"  
  
"Yes," Dumbledore giggled, reaching for a piece of caramel, "it's quite droll, actually. He's been saying the filthiest things to the young girls. You can imagine the effects... but then, I'm sure it's all in good fun."  
  
"Of course."  
  
"But on a more serious note – the Death Eater meeting yesterday. What happened?"  
  
"They raped a muggle born, again, sir. And then we drank blood out of a skull."  
  
"A pretty muggle born?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Young? Lithe?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Probably absolutely panting for it, wasn't she?"  
  
"I imagine so, sir."  
  
"God, how awful. Now," he leaned across the desk, cradling his head in his palms, "you just tell me all about it..."  
  
Later that evening, Severus couldn't help feeling the tiniest bit proud of his story. He had woven a tale of such incendiary lust and depravity that Dumbledore was reduced to a gleeful giggling fit, preceding his adamant speech on the necessity of eliminating the Dark Lord, whose actions were an insult to decent Wizards everywhere. So Severus was in one of his most cheerful moods as he sat down to grade papers. But, as he was merrily humming a Puccini aria, and scrawling all manner of imaginative insults on students papers (the next morning poor Terry Boot would read that he was "without question the stupidest person alive, possibly suffering from auto- intoxication and should consider an enema" and would cause a great commotion in the common room when he demanded to know what an enema was) he suddenly caught sight of a blue robed torso wriggling frantically in his ventilation duct.  
  
"Severus?" mewled the torso, "I seem to be just a little bit stuck."  
  
"Master!" exclaimed Severus, as he darted across the room, tugging frantically upon the Dark Lord's amphibious ankles. Voldemort crumpled in a pile on the floor, clutching his robes around himself as he fell in a desperate attempt to preserve his modesty.  
  
"You have no idea," Voldemort said, shaking his head grimly, "how really difficult it is to insure that my dignity is never for one moment compromised."  
  
"It might be easier if you stopped dropping out of ventilation ducts," replied Severus.  
  
"But you can't apparate onto the school grounds. I certainly can't floo myself in. But they've never considered the ventilation system! It's moments like these I'm grateful for my rascally orphan past. And I wanted to see you. I told Bella last night... oh, she stayed the night, by the way."  
  
Snape raised his eyebrows.  
  
"No. No, just on the couch. I think I just wanted to see how the phrase sounded. But you know, she's really, really pretty when she's asleep. Every few hours I kept creeping in to make sure she was still breathing. Is that strange?"  
  
"I think it would fit with many people's perception of you, my Lord."  
  
"Oh, no. That's your nice way of telling me I'm being quirky again, isn't it? Well, anyhow, we brought you these."  
  
Voldemort bent down and offered Snape an exceedingly tattered and partially shredded bouquet.  
  
"Ventilation systems are hell on flowers, I'm afraid. I told Bella that I felt bad about crucio-ing you, and she said that it would be sweet if we sent flowers. They were yellow roses originally. Now, Bella is going by the whole 19th century language des fleurs system, and she said that we shouldn't send yellow roses because they meant a decrease of love. But I said that yellow roses made me feel really fuzzy inside. So we decided that we could send yellow roses. When I take over the world, people are going to be seeing a whole lot more yellow roses."  
  
"Well, that's very kind of you," replied Severus, laying the collection of stems down on his desk, next to the aspidistra. "Oh, and I heard something today that will make you so happy."  
  
"A corruption!?" exclaimed Voldemort, clapping his claws gleefully.  
  
"Yes, indeed!"  
  
Money?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Power."  
  
"No."  
  
"Then it must be sex!"  
  
"Exactly. It would seem Professor Binns makes incredibly lewd comments towards the young girls, and Dumbledore knows all about it and chooses to gloss over it. It could be turned into quite a scandal."  
  
"Oh, my. You never can trust those ghosts. Oh, it would be a scandal. The spirit division of the Ministry would have a breakdown – they're so into that high horse, morality non-physical thing. And I think they'd want to detract attention from ghosts and try to focus the blame on Dumbledore. If we could get Dumbledore out, or at least somewhat less glorified, we might have an opening for more mainstream political involvement. Who should we go to?"  
  
"Fudge?"  
  
"I think in the past we've found Fudge to be about as effectual as an ice cream sundae."  
  
"True. The media?"  
  
"Brilliant. Who do we know in the media? The Daily Prophet isn't really up for our stories after Potter's article."  
  
"I'm sure we can find someone."  
  
"I imagine we can. Did you talk to Hermione? Such a coup, such a coup. A major coup."  
  
"You like that word, don't you?"  
  
"It's a great word. I'll use that word a lot after I take control of the wizarding world. But did you talk to her?"  
  
"A little. Last night."  
  
"Were you charming?"  
  
"I only took 20 points off Gryffindor."  
  
"No, no, no Severus. That's not how we behave when we're being charming. You should go talk to her immediately. She spends the night outside your door, you know."  
  
"How did you know?"  
  
"Well, because every time I walk by I see this girl sitting there with a book bag that has 'Hermione Granger' written on it in large letters. And then one day she came up to me as I passed and said, 'Hello, my name is Hermione Granger.'"  
  
"You talked to her? But you're..."  
  
"Oh, no, don't worry. She thinks I'm the friendly squib caretaker who had an unfortunate run-in with a bowtruckle which disfigured me for life. I was saving a baby crup when it happened. Tragic, really."  
  
"But your looks are so... deliciously unique, my Lord. Wouldn't she have recognized you?"  
  
"Severus, really. Have you never noticed that I always wear my periwinkle robe when I come to Hogwarts? It's a fact universally acknowledged that evil overlords wear black robes, and friendly, stoically disfigured caretakers wear blue ones. Everyone knows that."  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Now, I'm going to leave. You stay in for a minute, and then you go out and talk to Miss Granger."  
  
"Must I?"  
  
"You must, you must."  
  
Voldemort capered out, prancing delicately upon his satanic hooves, wriggling his forked tail as he went.  
  
Severus timidly withdrew a few minutes later and approached Hermione, who looked flustered for a moment, and then resumed staring at her wall.  
  
"Hello, Miss Granger."  
  
"Oh, hello Professor Snape. Do you know Willard?"  
  
"Willard?"  
  
"The caretaker. You must; I just saw him coming out of your rooms. He's the most darling man. You know he had the most terrible run in with a Bowtruckle..."  
  
"I've heard. Saving a crup, at the time. Awful."  
  
"Isn't it. Well..."  
  
"I see you've brought a book with you, this time."  
  
"No, I haven't. What book? I don't have any book."  
  
"Yes, you do, it's right there, under the hem of your robe. I can see the corner of it."  
  
"No. No, that's not a book."  
  
"Yes, it most certainly is. Here," he bent down quickly snatching Hermione's paperback "My word, Miss Granger, The Predilections and Passions...?"  
  
"Oh!" exclaimed Hermione, grabbing her book out of his grasp, "I'm sorry, I know it's horrible and beneath me, and I'm really ashamed of it, and..."  
  
"Please, Miss Granger, it's perfectly normal. I've got some Genet and a complete De Sade in my private library. Want to see?"  
  
"No, no, I'm not falling for that again."  
  
"Falling for what?"  
  
"Professor Binns told me that he had a complete series of a rare Herbology volume from the 16th century, and as soon as I went in there he started saying the filthiest things. It was quite traumatizing, really."  
  
"Oh. Well. I do, in fact, unlike Binns... well, really suffice to say I'm not like Binns."  
  
"You're sure?"  
  
"It's a great library. Here, come with me."  
  
He guided her into his private rooms, and she let forth an animated squeal.  
  
"Anything surprising, Miss Granger?"  
  
"The walls! They're all red!"  
  
"Maroon, actually, but you could say red. I rather like maroon. I think it's a very stately shade."  
  
"But it's a Gryffindor color!"  
  
"Only Gryffindors would be so unbelievably arrogant as to believe they actually own a color."  
  
Hermione paused for a moment, and then giggled. "You may have a point," she replied, "but you have to admit it's like going into the Dark Lord's bedroom and finding all the walls painted pink."  
  
"Actually..."  
  
"Oh, no!" She giggled again.  
  
"But here, you'll note that the books are pretty much everywhere. What kind of romances do you like?"  
  
"Well, ones with alliterative titles excite me."  
  
"And..."  
  
"I like to read novels where the heroine has a costume that rustles discreetly over her breasts, or discreet breasts rustling under her costume; in any cast there must be a costume, and some breasts, some rustling, and, overall, discretion."  
  
"Regency, then."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"You know," Severus said, skimming his shelves "You really might like Candide by Voltaire."  
  
"Is it fiendishly erotic?"  
  
"Well, there is an insinuation that women might be having sex with monkeys. But no... but it is seen as one of the first novels to focus on emotions. And it's very funny. And it's in the period you like."  
  
"Well, I could give it a try."  
  
"If you like we could discuss it when you're through. Say, next week, at the same time?"  
  
"I'd like that. But what should I tell people? They won't believe we're just having a book club; they could get suspicious."  
  
"Well, you could say you've signed up to be my potion's assistant. Or that you're helping me create a potion that will overthrow the Dark Lord."  
  
"They might believe that. Alright. Next week, then. But if you're giving me one of your books, I really ought to leave you one of mine. Quid pro quo, you know." She laid The Predilections and Passions of Pygmalion's Piquant Protégé on his bedside table.  
  
"I don't read dreck, Miss Granger. But thank you for the offer."  
  
"Well, just in case you get bored, I'll leave it here."  
  
"It's hardly necessary. But thank you. 20 points from Gryffindor for being out past curfew. Good night, now."  
  
"Good night Professor Snape."  
  
She withdrew, clutching her copy of Candide and Severus resumed grading his papers. But later that evening, as he cuddled under his cherry colored quilt, he couldn't resist reaching out and beginning The Predilections and Passions of Pygmalion's Piquant Protégé. It was his job after all, and... "My word," thought Severus, as he reached page forty-nine, "is that maneuver physically possible!?"  
  
A/N: Not to sound needy, but reviews make me nearly as happy as yellow roses make Voldemort. 


	3. Severus, Hermione and Voltaire at Ferney

At nine the next Thursday, Hermione fluffed her bushy hair (which she preferred to think of as free flowing and vibrant, like that of an exuberant temptress out of a Waterhouse painting) in a fit of adolescent angst, and snapped her transfiguration book shut with a resounding crack. She ambled over to the corner where Harry and Ron were pawing through her copy of Candide with looks of chagrined puzzlement on both their faces.  
  
"May I have my book back?" she asked.  
  
"This book..." replied Harry, "it's supposed to be a comedy? It's not funny, Hermione. It's not funny at all."  
  
"Pretty lousy comedy," replied Ron, chomping on his twenty second chocolate frog of the evening, "everyone's dead and raped and mutilated."  
  
"Kind of thing those dirty Dark wizards would like," replied Harry, fingering his wand.  
  
"Wait a second Harry..." said Ron, "what about when the old woman gets her buttock chopped off! Now that's funny!"  
  
"That's true. But I still say the rest of it is pretty black. Downright evil, even."  
  
"Harry's right," replied Ron, nodding solemnly, "mutilation is bad. And sex with monkeys is just weird. Evil people"  
  
Ron opened another chocolate frog packet, and the creature made a desperate break for freedom before Ron caught it, devouring its tiny, flailing legs one by one.  
  
"It's an awful book," proclaimed Harry, handing the novel to Hermione with aggravated disdain. "Who gave it to you?"  
  
"Professor Snape," she replied, tucking the book back into her satchel.  
  
"Well, that figures," snorted Harry. "Greasy git."  
  
"I don't think I get that book," replied Ron, "it doesn't make any sense, most of the time."  
  
"Probably because you're a cretin," Hermione muttered.  
  
"What?" said Harry.  
  
"Nothing. Oh, and don't forget about the transfiguration homework. I marked it on your syllabus."  
  
"Wait," replied Harry, "where are you going?"  
  
"Harry, really. We've been over this. I have to go help Professor Snape make a potion which will defeat Vol -"  
  
Ron twitched convulsively, crushing a chocolate frog (a frog who had always dreamed of seeing Paris or anyplace outside the confines of his box) beneath him.  
  
"- demorte. It's supposed to be a punishment for helping Neville, but I view it as a reward. I'm going to save the wizarding world."  
  
"Well, that's nice," said Harry. Ron said nothing, as he was busy opening another box of frogs.  
  
Meanwhile, down in the dungeons, Professor Snape was poised with a knife over a package. He stabbed it once. Then again. And again, each time with increasing ferocity. "Bloody packing materials," muttered Severus. Next to the box, along with some glittery green ribbon, lay a small, silver embossed card, across which a message was scrawled in sticky red fluid. 'Sevvie-' it read, 'I hear you're having a book club. I love it! Too cute for words! But what's a book club without cookies? Hope these help, hugs and kisses – Bellatrix.'  
  
Just as Severus finally managed to pry open the box and dump the sweets onto a plate, Hermione entered, her Waterhouse-esque temptress hair billowing behind her.  
  
"Hello," she said, walking towards to the armchair where Severus sat. "Oh," she exclaimed, "you made cookies!" She reached down and picked one up, staring at it with a puzzled expression before sitting down in the chair across from him.  
  
For the first time Severus glanced down at the cookies and realized, with a gasp of horror, that each of them was a perfect, delicately rendered replica of Lord Voldemort, giggling and clutching his scaly belly with his skeletal hands.  
  
"These are very unusual cookies," said Hermione, readjusting the licorice forked tongue on hers. "They're snake-people, aren't they? I like the way you used the red Bertie Bott's Beans for the eyes. Are they the strawberry ones? Or the cinnamon ones? Because cinnamon ones make me sneeze. I just thought I should warn you."  
  
"Actually," replied Severus, "I'm really not sure. A friend of mine made them."  
  
"You have friends!?"  
  
"Well, it's not an exceedingly wide social circle, but yes, I have some very close friends."  
  
"Oh, then that explains it..."  
  
"Explains what?"  
  
"Fifth year, I felt really sorry for you because I didn't think you had any friends. You're a little grumpy, and you insult people a lot, it was probably an unfair assumption on my part, but you seemed like you were really angry about Christmas."  
  
"That's because I'm an atheist and a moral relativist. The Christmas season reminds me of the Crusades, and witch burnings, and inquisitions. I still do give presents, though. I just try to regard it as a gift giving bonanza day."  
  
"Yes, that's just it. I decided you were angry because you didn't get any presents. So I bought you this wonderful copy of Paraganum by Paracelsus, and then I crept down into your office to leave it on your desk when you were eating lunch in the great hall. I imagined it was going to be this one bittersweet present all by itself, and I was going to leave an anonymous card, then a whole series of wacky mishaps would ensue, which would eventually end with you discovering my identity; but when I got to your desk I found there were about fifteen presents already there. I figured a lot of other students had the same idea about the anonymous card and wacky mishaps. And as it was a really good book, and you had other presents, I decided to keep it for myself.  
  
"What a terrible pity. I don't have a copy of Paraganum."  
  
"Well, I could loan it to you. It's rather marked up now, though."  
  
"No, no, that's alright. The Predilections and Passions of Pygmalion's Piquant Protégé was quite enough excitement for one week."  
  
"Oh, you read it!" Hermione squealed excitedly, and then bit the head off her cookie, which triggered a violent sneezing fit. "Cinnamon. Definitely cinnamon."  
  
"Pluck their eyeballs off before you eat them. And yes, I read it. I thought it was utter rubbish, though I admit that when Duke Darington died fighting in the Goblin rebellion I was depressed for the next three days."  
  
"Come now, wasn't it better than you thought it would be?"  
  
"Certainly not. Here," he picked up his book and turned to a bookmarked page "look at this, for instance: 'She had the wistful passion of a wild bird.'"  
  
"Oh, don't you just love that? I go absolutely mad for sentences like that. I think if I could write like that I could go through life like a pearl surrounded by oyster spittle."  
  
"You'd be the spittle."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You'd be surrounded by oyster flesh; quite literally you'd really be a grain aggravating it."  
  
"That's not the point, Professor Snape."  
  
"Quite right. The real question is which bird, Miss Granger? It does make a difference, you know. Did she have the wistful passion of a screech owl? A cuckoo, perhaps?"  
  
"You obviously don't have the mind for this sort of thing. The world doesn't need more literalists of the imagination."  
  
"You're telling me I have a bad imagination?"  
  
"I'd never be so bold, Professor."  
  
Snape laughed.  
  
"You laughed!" exclaimed Hermione.  
  
"Is that so shocking?"  
  
"Well, you're Professor Snape. You don't laugh."  
  
"I do when something's funny, Miss Granger. What's more, I don't really think my imagination is at fault. Surely you've noticed that in every romance novel..."  
  
"So you've read them before!"  
  
"A little... in every one I've read the heroine is always sweet and virtuous, but just a touch stupid."  
  
"That's because," Hermione replied, speaking very slowly, "stupid women are the story. Practical girls don't run off into the city and get chased by brigands and end up marrying the Prince. Practical girls stay home, and marry the neighboring baker, and have lots of well behaved children and get 'Dutiful Wife and Mother' written across their gravestones, if they get gravestones at all."  
  
Snape reached over and picked up a few of the cinnamon beans which were rapidly mounting on the side of Hermione's plate.  
  
"Besides," Hermione continued, "clichés like that are awfully appealing. There are so many of them; it helps to signal that the book is going to end with guaranteed joy all round. For instance, the girls all have to have regular teeth, and pluck, and both breasts the same size, and no excess facial hair. You can always rely on them to know where band-aids are, and to transform the hero from a potential scoundrel and rapist into a beautifully dressed country gentleman with a nice vocabulary and clean fingernails."  
  
"How are you able to figure all this out when, since the age of ten, you haven't had a single class in literature?"  
  
"I am a clever girl, aren't I?"  
  
"For a Gryffindor, you do alright."  
  
"Come on, Professor. I think we all know what your mentality is about discriminating against Gryffindors."  
  
"I certainly don't. What is it, pray tell?"  
  
"Well, you know that come the final battle we'll all be fighting on the side of good, while Slytherins will be fighting on the side of evil. And by giving the Slytherins high marks all the time, regardless of how poor their potions are, you guarantee that they'll be ill equipped to fight against us. You're being noble, sir."  
  
"No. No, actually I just really hate Gryffindors. I think you're crass, blatant people with no panache."  
  
"Oh. Really?"  
  
"Of course. Did it never occur to you that if that were my intent, I wouldn't write insulting comments on their papers? I would, in fact, be more encouraging so they would want to invest extra time in the subject."  
  
"But that's because you can't do that, because then the Slytherins would tell their parents and Voldemort would kill you!"  
  
"I think the Dark Lord would be too sensible to be in favor of someone displaying loyalties in the class room which would clearly establish them as a Death Eater. He's a little subtler than that, Miss Granger."  
  
"That would be true if he weren't stark raving mad, and we all know that he is."  
  
"Well, he's definitely quirky. Most dictators are, though. Lenin for instance, if we're to use a muggle example, was said to have an unusual fondness for pencils, and would spend hours happily sharpening them. I've always liked that image, Lenin hunched over his desk, giggling frantically as he sharpened."  
  
"I bet Freud would have had something to say about that."  
  
Professor Snape chuckled. "But really, Miss Granger, this shouldn't be a political discussion."  
  
"You view the Death Eaters as political?"  
  
"As opposed to a source of raw, amoral evil? Yes, I view them as political. But that's really not something we have time to cover. Did you like Candide?"  
  
"Ron and Harry think it's terrible."  
  
"And you?"  
  
"I think it's one of the funniest things I've ever read."  
  
"I'm glad. Not just that it offends Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley, though that is a very good sign."  
  
"But don't you think it gets just the tiniest bit... Hufflepuff at the very end?"  
  
"You mean with the moral that everyone should work, and mind their own business?"  
  
"Yes. I didn't like the ending very much."  
  
"Really? I'm quite fond of it. But then I'm in favor of being left alone."  
  
"It might be the sensible answer, but you have to admit it was a lot more interesting when they were running around the world and seeing things like El Dorado."  
  
"I agree. And as a romance, it fails miserably."  
  
"Do you have any romances? Any ones you approve of, I mean."  
  
"I'll loan you my copy of Wuthering Heights. It's really the first romance, and if you like that line about the birds, you'll love the "wild, sweet Cathy" quotes. And a friend told me I should give you some Chekhov. I've got a copy of Ivanov around here somewhere; there are some very lovely bits in that."  
  
"Professor Snape?"  
  
"Yes, Miss Granger?"  
  
"This is probably going to sound silly, but why are you being so nice to me? Were you put up to it?"  
  
"I was advised to socialize with you. I didn't like the idea when it was mentioned, to be perfectly honest, but now that I've talked to you, I think you're what I'd call... tolerable."  
  
"I'll take that as a compliment."  
  
"You should."  
  
"Are you still going to deduct points from Gryffindor when I leave?"  
  
"Only ten points. I'm feeling generous. It's probably the cookies."  
  
"Well, well. You know, I've always admired you, but I never thought you could be pleasant before. This is really very enjoyable. It's not often I get to talk books with people. Do you think we could do it again?"  
  
"Next week? Same time?"  
  
"That sounds perfect. So, tell me, I've been reading up on my muggle history, do you think Voltaire is making fun of the Prussian army - when he talks about how Candide is taken into the army because he's the right height?"  
  
"Why, you know," mused Severus, nestling further back into his chair "I've never even considered that before..."  
  
Severus and Hermione sat avidly discussing the merits and flaws of Candide well into the evening, until the cookies were all devoured, and only a small mountain of cinnamon beans remained between them. 


	4. Starbucks

For Bellatrix LeStrange, all cemeteries possess a sort of unintentional beauty. They're a lot like gardens, the graves covered with grass and flowers. Modest tombstones are lost in the abundant greenery. Vines have to be peeled back to read epitaphs, and there's an element of discovery which allows her to imagine that she's a nineteenth century English explorer delving into the Dark Continent. She's captivated by the way carnations stay at the base of graves long after they've wilted, like a collection of floral shrunken heads. Even in the bad times, after the end of the first war, with the imminence of Azkaban, when she felt blue, she would get on her Firebolt, and leave London far behind, and walk through one of the country cemeteries she loved so well. Against a backdrop of grey sky, the mausoleums were as lovely as an aria.  
For Severus Snape, cemeteries are an exceedingly ugly dump of old stones and bones.  
And such a viewpoint made him considerably less pleased to be standing in one on what would otherwise have been a very pleasant Sunday morning. "Bellatrix," He whimpered, "why must we always meet in graveyards?"  
  
"Because they're really, really pretty."  
  
"It's such a cliché that I can barely live with myself."  
  
"Clichéd? How?"  
  
"Well, you know, that we..." He eyed the old woman sitting on the stone bench suspiciously, "that people in our... club... are so obsessed with... the club's name... that we have to... Bellatrix, it's a cliché. And we should start meeting in coffee shops, or something."  
  
"That would be unbearably bourgeois. Besides, I was visiting Regulus's grave today. I like this cemetery. Lots of Blacks buried here. Not Sirius, of course, but that's no surprise. There's Auntie and Uncle, see, over there, behind the lilies, and there's little Reggie."  
  
"We killed little Reggie."  
  
"Well, Reggie was a traitorous bastard. So it goes. But asides from that, really, a very nice kid."  
  
"But we did..."  
  
"Sevvie, death is what we do. And it doesn't matter how many people you kill, what matters is how you treat them when they're still alive."  
  
"Did you leave something on his grave?"  
  
"Naturally."  
  
"Carnations?"  
  
"Playboy Magazine. You have to know your audience."  
  
Severus smiled, and caught sight of the tiny paths of skulls leading up to most of the Black graves. He turned back to Bellatrix. "Your work?"  
  
"I believe in being aesthetically pleasing, above all things. Why don't you like graveyards? Too morbid?"  
  
He disliked graveyards because he was a terrible coward, with an overwhelming fear of his own mortality who believed in putting a stopper in death whenever possible.  
  
"I just find them very unpleasant. Not that I'm a coward."  
  
"Of course not. No one ever thinks of you as cowardly, despite the fact that it's a commonly acknowledged Slytherin characteristic."  
  
"Is that a note of sarcasm I detect? I'm really not a coward, I'm not..."  
  
"Whatever you say, Sevvie. Do you want to walk across the street? There's a Starbucks. We could go to Starbucks. Starbucks has coffee. Starbucks is everywhere. Starbucks is taking over the world."  
  
"You seem mesmerized by it."  
  
"I've been away for almost fifteen years, things have changed. Do you have muggle money on you?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Oh, good. You're paying, then." She linked her arm affectionately in his, and skipped nimbly along into the coffee shop. No sooner had they entered than a muggle boy began tugging on the hem of Severus's robe, and said, in a horrible, grating voice, worse than any Albus Dumbledore could have thrust upon Voldemort, "You look funny, mister!"  
  
Bellatrix leapt back in horror.  
  
"Are you from the circus," whined the child, gripping the train of Severus's robes and waving it about, "because I like the circus. Do a trick! Do a trick now!"  
  
Severus knelt down before the boy with a quiet solemnity that would make any woman watching him decide that he would be a wonderful father some day. He pressed his lips up to child's ear and whispered "How does this sound for a trick? I'll gnaw off your ears before eating the rest of the flesh from your body, and then, I'll pick my teeth with your bones. Good trick?"  
  
The boy ran off, and buried his face in the skirt of a formidable woman carrying a Grande Mocha Iced Chai Latte Chocolate Americano Frappuccino with Whipped Cream. "Mommy," he mewled, "that mean man said he'd like to eat my ears!"  
  
"Shh, Tommy," replied his mother "they're probably Eastern European. That might be something they do in their country. It's a cultural difference, isn't it! And we don't make fun of other peoples' cultures, do we?"  
  
"No," whimpered Tommy.  
  
"Alright then. Let's go. Wave to the Eastern Europeans, Tommy."  
  
Tommy waved timidly, and Severus bared his teeth.  
  
"That was... breathtaking," stated Bellatrix, "I'm impressed. Now, you can get me a cappuccino."  
  
"Mmm," Replied Severus, procuring a 5 pound note from his pocket and, gripping it securely, if somewhat menacingly, waved it about in front of him.  
  
"What are you doing?" asked Bellatrix.  
  
"I'm waiting for them to come serve us."  
  
"No, you have to go to the counter."  
  
Severus strode forth as if to bludgeon a basilisk. "I need a medium cappuccino," he proclaimed.  
  
"Oh," replied the excitable counter boy, "we don't say 'medium' here, sir! We say 'grande'! We also say 'tall', and 'venti.'"  
  
"Yes, well, I'm quite certain you do," replied Severus, "but I say 'medium.' Now give me a medium cappuccino." The man at counter gave him a medium cappuccino, but it was clear that his heart wasn't in it. Snape deposited the cup in front of Bellatrix with a tiny, half-proud smile, which seemed to indicate that he had just survived an epic battle that had left all the enemy combatants dead.  
  
"Thanks," said Bellatrix.  
  
"So,' mused Severus, "will the Dark Lord be joining us?"  
  
"I hope so. Did he mention that I spent the night..."  
  
"On the couch. I already heard. Is your version more titillating?"  
  
"No," sighed Bellatrix, sipping her cappuccino glumly, "do you think he likes me? I mean, likes me in a... No, that sounds so jejune, forget I said that. Anyway, even if he did, it wouldn't do. I don't think I could ever really have a fling with him. I'd never know if he really liked me for me, or if he was just using me to breed a satanic heir and take over the planet. Not that I wouldn't be a really good mother for a satanic heir."  
  
"Well, exactly. We all saw how well you handled Tommy back there."  
  
"Mmm," muttered Bellatrix, as she nuzzled her cappuccino foam dolefully.  
  
"So!" exclaimed Severus brightly, "how is that husband of yours!"  
  
"My husband? Oh, that's right. Rudolphus. I'd forgotten about him entirely. I don't know. He's probably off shagging some mudblood. It's so depressing. I'm more celibate than McGonagall."  
  
"More celibate?"  
  
"One hears rumors. What about you? Do you have lots of wild sex with teenagers? Don't tell me if you do, I'll have to kill myself."  
  
"Nothing. Ever. Celibacy is the new black. That's why I dress like a vicar."  
  
"That's certainly how I keep justifying it."  
  
"Speaking of the new black, I do love those robes on you. It's rather unnerving to see you in pink, though. Special occasion?"  
  
Bellatrix looked about to respond, when Voldemort tottered in, looking lost and frightened, with a twig stuck in his hood.  
  
"Why are we here?" asked Voldemort, "we were supposed to meet at the graveyard! I waited! I waited, and waited, and no one came. And I had horrible flashbacks to the day they all forgot my birthday at the orphanage."  
  
"Oh," murmured Bellatrix, and she leaned over to remove the twig from his bald skull, "we meant to tell you, my Lord. I'm sorry. Very sorry. Here, have some cappuccino, Severus is paying."  
  
"Hear that 'my lord' business?" whispered the man at the next table, "definitely Eastern European."  
  
Voldemort sniffled. "I don't like cappuccino. I want a Chocolate Brownie Frappuccino."  
  
"And you can have one," soothed Bellatrix, "Severus, go buy him a Chocolate Brownie Frappuccino."  
  
"And I want it venti!" screeched the Dark Lord.  
  
By the time Severus returned, bearing the beverage, Voldemort seemed to have regained most of his steely composure. "Thank you, Severus," he said, nudging the tiny chocolate bear off the side of his cup, "now, how did that book thing go? With the Granger girl."  
  
"She was tolerable."  
  
Bellatrix's eyes lit up with an expression of profound interest, "Did she try to seduce you?"  
  
"Certainly not!"  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
In her youth, Bellatrix had once whispered in her potion master's ear that she'd be, "willing to polish his cauldron any day of the week." He said, "how about next Tuesday at eight?" She arrived in a corset and a miniskirt and spent the evening scraping dried bat dung off a cauldron, while he organized his file cabinet. It was then that Bellatrix discovered that men who live in basements are not known for their ability to appreciate innuendo. She's been a little bitter about it ever since.  
  
"Positive."  
  
"Because all schoolgirls must have fantasies you know. Especially about potion masters. You have the word 'master' worked right into your job description, after all."  
  
"Would you consider seducing her?" queried Voldemort, "It would make her very receptive to any organizations you were involved with. And Bella is right, she could certainly be attracted to you, were you to exert any effort in the matter."  
  
Severus looked shocked once again, "Even if I wanted to – and that's a huge 'if' at the moment, though I'll admit she was much better company than I anticipated – there would be an enormous scandal."  
  
"Wait," Replied Voldemort, his eyes glinting wildly, "What if... now this is going to sound a bit far fetched, but work with me... what if we kidnapped her. And then we got everyone in the DE to pretend that we were having a huge orgy, and we were going to rape her. And then you came in and said, 'No, no, Dark Lord! Don't rape her! No, no!' And I had to say 'why?' and you said, 'because she's my sex toy!' and I said, 'well, then prove it!' And then I laughed maniacally, thus forcing you to have sex with her right there! But it wouldn't be like rape, because secretly, she'd enjoy it. And then she'd be kind of unnerved, but she'll fantasize about how good the rape in front of Death Eater minions was, and come back for more."  
  
Severus chuckled wildly, Bellatrix laughed so hard she began to choke on her cappuccino foam.  
  
"What?" said Voldemort, "I think it's a logical idea."  
  
"Really," replied Bellatrix, "sometimes you're just too funny."  
  
"I could just slip her a lust potion," Severus suggested.  
  
"Notoriously unreliable," noted Voldemort.  
  
"Well..." said Bellatrix, stirring her straw idly, "now, I'm just throwing out ideas here, and this does hinge a lot on Fudge being a total psychopath, which we've never quite found to be the case before, but we could enact a law that said that muggleborns had to breed with purebloods. Then we'd steal all the letters that would arrive from men who wanted to marry a famed, bright and, really, quite attractive witch, and we'd see that you were the only one who could possibly marry her. She'd see your sparkling personality, because we know that all women forced into arranged marriages see their new husbands sparkling personality, and then you'd be able to bring her into the Death Eaters."  
  
Bellatrix giggled cheerfully, Severus convulsed in such a burst of laughter that his wand dropped on the ground. As he knelt down to pick it up, he couldn't help noticing that Voldemort's hoof had extended to nudge against Bellatrix's pearly pink stilettos.  
  
"I can't imagine," Severus remarked, as Voldemort stared at Bellatrix with gooey red eyes, "that a girl whose been shocked by the attentions of Professor Binns would really be the kind to rush into an illicit affair."  
  
"Ah! Professor Binns," nodded Voldemort, "you'll be pleased to know I got Hagrid drunk in the pub again and told him all about it. I think he'll spread the word rather quickly. If we need, we could always go to the Quibbler, what with Potter going to it, I feel its become much more mainstream."  
  
"But," mentioned Bellatrix, "you know, it would be even better if once the Binns business was revealed, we could heap another scandal on top of it. Sexual harassment charges directed towards one of the teachers aren't going to be enough to get Dumbledore kicked out, are they? Can we get dirt on anyone else? And once we get Dumbledore out, who do we appoint Headmaster? I would think it would go directly to that cow, Minerva. Perhaps we could buy Lucius in, but then... Lucius is insane. Not that I don't love him, but he might do some funny things."  
  
"I thought Severus, myself. Modify the curriculum, attempt to place more importance upon the uniqueness of wizarding culture rather than trying to assimilate muggle culture, provide better positions for squibs and house elves, offer reparations to the goblins who we so consistently treat abominably, help the dementors be happier, better adjusted creatures, adopt a domestic policy wherein we provide means of schooling for all cognizant beings of the wizarding world before extending ourselves to the muggle world, but I'm just getting carried away now. See if the girl knows anything Severus, just give her a little push, I'm sure she'd know all the dirt, don't you think?"  
  
"Certainly," replied Bellatrix.  
  
"Right. Good then. Severus, you go to Hogwarts and talk to the girl. I'm going to stay here and talk policy with Bella."  
  
Bellatrix reached for her cup, and brushed her hand briefly against his sinews.  
  
"You two do that," replied Severus "And Bellatrix? Do give my regards to your husband." But given the way the pair was wrapped up in a giddy chat, Severus could hardly have expected her to hear him.  
  
A/N: Reviews do inspire me to update at a much quicker rate. 


	5. The Red Dress part 1

Hermione Granger's tempestuous hair crackled fitfully against her pillow. She pulled the sheets up beneath her chin, opened her mouth a fraction of an inch and softly moaned, "Se... se..." before rolling over again, leaving a light trail of spittle on her emerald pillowcase.  
  
"Ah, ha!" squealed Ginny Weasley, who was perched, as she was perched every morning, at the base of Hermione's bed. "So, what's he like in bed, Hermione?" demanded Ginny. "What's Severus Snape like in bed? Scarred, but with ebony eyes, pearly skin and a disproportionately large manhood? You can tell me Hermione, you were moaning his name in your sleep; it's alright, the secrets out."  
  
"Oh, my God," groaned Hermione, wiping the sleep dust from her eyes, "you're like the black angel of death. Why do you listen to me talk in my sleep all the bloody time? And why, why, do you always assume that Severus is the only word in the English language that begins 'se?' I was dreaming about Neville."  
  
Ginny jolted back, unable to shake the feeling that, were their lives a romantic novel (in which she regarded herself as the feisty strumpet, owing largely to her red hair, as feisty strumpets, after all, generally have red hair) any plot involving Hermione and Neville would be too terribly, terribly wrong.  
  
"About Neville in a... sexual way?" queried Ginny.  
  
"No. I was dreaming about being with him in potions class and how he couldn't figure out how to separate – see, 'se' in separate – the ingredients. So there was a risk that we were going to die. And I kept trying to tell him, but he couldn't hear me. I think it may have something to do with an inherent feeling of powerlessness, or at least weakness in comparison to Harry and Ron. Or maybe I'm just a control freak. You don't think I'm a control freak, do you?"  
  
"So," replied Ginny, "You were dreaming about potion's class, eh? Potion's class? You know, Severus Snape's potion's class? That's potion's class."  
  
"Go away," mewled Hermione, "its Saturday, Ginny. It's 8:00. Just leave me alone. Maybe, maybe if you leave now, I'll tell you about what Snape and I did when I went to 'detention.'"  
  
Ginny pranced out of the room practically salivating.  
  
And just as Hermione had buried her face back into the plushy curves of her pillow, and was deliciously close to dropping off once again, her attention was caught by the faint rapping noise. She pulled on her dressing robe, sliding the sash lightly about her waist, and then stumbled off in the direction of her window. When she pulled it open she was greeted by the smiling – if such an expression could be called a smile – face of the disfigured but stoic squib caretaker she knew and loved.  
  
"Don't you just love mornings?" exclaimed Voldemort, fiddling with the cuffs of his rainbow striped sleeves.  
  
"Uh," replied Hermione, "it's awfully early in the morning, isn't it? I do love mornings when they start a bit later."  
  
"If being a stoically disfigured squib caretaker has taught me anything," replied Voldemort, "it's taught me that worms that don't get up early enough are vivisected and devoured in ways so horrible you can't even begin to imagine them. By birds, Miss Granger. By birds."  
  
"Ah," stated Hermione, doing her best to look extremely awake and trying desperately not to think about how much the figure standing before her resembled a worm. "Could you give me a moment to dress?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
Hermione wiggled into a formless garment that had been lying at the end of her bed before returning to the window.  
  
"And isn't it a lovely morning?" continued Voldemort, seemingly back to his normal state of good cheer. "Do you know why it's lovely? It's lovely because I have a gift for you!"  
  
"You bought me something? Oh Willard, that's so sweet, but I hope you understand that there really can't be any romantic connection between us..."  
  
"No, not from me, dear girl. It's from Professor Snape. He asked me to drop it off."  
  
"Oh!" cried Hermione, "maybe it's a book!"  
  
Hermione tore at the wrapping paper like a rabid marsupial searching for crumbs.  
  
"Professor Snape wanted me to have... a human skull?"  
  
"A baby's, actually," replied Voldemort, grinning happily. "Oh, it's good for all kinds of things! I mean, say you had a pet snake, and the pet snake had no place to go. You wouldn't want your poor pet to be all lonely and cold, would you? So you could just kind of inconspicuously weave it through the mouth of the skull. It would act as not just a habitat for your friendly reptile, but also an exciting talking point whenever you had company over. Especially if that company happened to consist of Aurors! Wouldn't that be clever, Miss Granger?"  
  
"That would be... a baby's skull, though? That's not a coffee-table book kind of conversation piece, is it?"  
  
"It is if your friends are avant-garde enough to appreciate it," growled Voldemort. "Obviously if your friends are uncultured hicks then yes, Miss Granger, yes, the sublime beauty of such a gift might elude them. That doesn't mean you shouldn't display it with pride. It just means you need new friends."  
  
"Uh-huh. Did it have a card?"  
  
"A card?"  
  
"From Professor Snape? Did he send a card? To maybe explain why he gave me a skull?"  
  
Voldemort looked a trifle panicked.  
  
"Do you have a pen?" he asked.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And a piece of paper? I'll need some paper."  
  
Hermione obligingly handed him a roll of parchment. Voldemort ducked outside. The sound of scrawling resonated against the bricks. A moment later Voldemort's head popped through the window with all the jubilation and jarring speed of a champagne cork  
  
"Why yes," said Voldemort, "it just so happens I did manage to find a card. It runs," he paused to clear his throat, "'Oh Hermione, unlike this baby, my love for you will never die. Love, love, love, Severus.'"  
  
"Willard, I suspect that you wrote that."  
  
"You cut me to core, Miss Granger."  
  
"I'm sorry, Willard."  
  
"It's alright. I understand. Often when you look the way I look people don't take you for a man with some sense of honor."  
  
"I'm sorry, but I still think I should go talk to Professor Snape about why he's declaring his love for me with severed anatomical portions."  
  
"It will be no use, Miss Granger. He'll only deny it. He'll be overcome with a fit of shyness. What you should do is go visit him with no clothes on. Only through exhibitionist behavior that would get ordinary people locked up can you prove the depth of your love. Trust me."  
  
"But I'm not in love with him."  
  
"That's cold, Miss Granger. Cold and cruel. He's a lonely man."  
  
"But he has friends. Quite a few of them."  
  
"You're quibbling, girl. Strip down and go visit Severus."  
  
"Willard, I'm going to go visit him with my clothes on. But I promise you that if at any point he tells me that he's a lonely, lonely man with terrible choice in gifts, I will strip naked."  
  
Voldemort sighed dolefully. He shook his head. "I'm sad that you can't see the golden opportunity that this allows you. But I will let it pass. That's the kind of man I am."  
  
Hermione gave Voldemort, who was looking very dejected, a kiss on the forehead, and then turned, strode out of her room, marched through the hallway, paced through the dungeons, and knocked purposefully on the door of Professor Snape's room. Severus opened it, wearing the same robes he usually wore (which came as a shock to Hermione who had always, on some subconscious level which she would never admit to Ginny, suspected that he occasionally trotted about wearing leather pants). Music from The Marriage of Figaro tinkled lightly in the background. Professor Snape looked somewhat shocked to see her.  
  
"Did you send me a skull?" Hermione demanded.  
  
"No."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"I hardly think it's the kind of thing I'd forget."  
  
"Well, how odd. Willard gave it to me and said it was from you.Could he have any ulterior motive you can think of?"  
  
Severus swallowed and paused for a moment. "Willard... I find Willard worries about me. A little. He's a sensitive soul. I think he wants to see that I've found a mate. It's the... the caretaker in him."  
  
"I'm rather glad you didn't send it."  
  
"Why? Aside from the obvious fact that it might be a death threat."  
  
"Well, it's just not... it's the not the kind of gift that would come up in a romance novel. I've always had a bit of a fantasy that one day I would meet the man of my dreams, and he'd buy me a... no, this is silly."  
  
"What? Edible chocolate paint?"  
  
Hermione laughed. "No, of course not. A red dress. It's stupid. But there are always these moments in books where a heroine walks into a room, and she's wearing a red dress, and she just completely captivates everyone. And it's symbolic of her whole metamorphosis from some bookish girl, usually, into a goddess. And I just always felt that if a man were to give me the red dress it would mean that he saw me as something other than a walking encyclopedia. That he understood that I was female and seductive and beautiful and... and these things I really try not to think about because they're really superficial. Once I had the dress, I would have a moment of epiphany where... something exciting would happen... and then after that I would be transformed. And I would be happy and in love forever and I would never have to worry about anything again."  
  
"My God," thought Severus, "the stock women place in clothes. I have no idea what she's talking about."  
  
"But enough about that," said Hermione, "I don't think Willard meant the skull as a death threat. He said it might make a habitat for a pet snake. Do you have one?"  
  
Severus raised his eyebrows. "That's a rather inappropriate question, don't you think?"  
  
Hermione blushed a hideous shade of beet root. "Not like that. A real one. You know, a snake. Slytherin emblem and all. Perhaps a sassy one, with feathers and roller skates."  
  
"No," sighed Severus, "we all know those don't exist. I do have a pet, though."  
  
"Really!" squeaked Hermione, "I wouldn't have thought of you as someone who'd keep a pet."  
  
"Would you like to meet him?"  
  
"Very much."  
  
Severus sauntered to his desk, and proudly held up a large jar that appeared to contain a bloated, red electric cord. Professor Snape tapped the glass with his finger affectionately. "His name is Trevor," he stated.  
  
"Oh," replied Hermione, "well... he looks like a piece of electric cord. I think it's the ugliest thing I've ever seen."  
  
"That's right," cooed Severus, seemingly oblivious, "Trevor the Tapeworm. He lived in my intestines for a little over six months. Do you know how you extricate a tapeworm, Miss Granger? You put a hot glass of milk in front of your mouth, to lure it out with the smell. Then you place a carrot in front of your open mouth, and when the tapeworm comes up it latches onto the carrot, and you pull..."  
  
"You keep a tapeworm as a pet?"  
  
"He came out of my body. We were one flesh until then. Intestinal parasites are as close as a man can get to giving birth."  
  
"I think I'm going to vomit."  
  
"Shall I call for Stevens?"  
  
"Who?"  
  
"My house elf. Well, the elf who attends to me. I suppose technically he's a Hogwarts elf."  
  
"I've never met an elf named Stevens. And I've been working with them for ages."  
  
"I'm sure he'd be pleased to meet with you." He called out, "Stevens? Could you come in for a moment?"  
  
Hermione suddenly found herself gazing into the steely monocle of a house elf smartly attired in a three piece suit, complete with a miniature pocket watch. He could easily have passed found a gnome, or a singularly unattractive, albeit well dressed, child.  
  
"How are you, Stevens? What have you been up to?" queried Severus.  
  
"I've been instructing some of the young elves as to their duties within the confines of Hogwarts. It proves arduous, but I think I would be not amiss in saying that I feel a healthy flush of anticipation as to their progress. In fact, I should go so far as to say that I feel a new resolve not to be daunted in respect to the professional tasks Dumbledore has entrusted to my care."  
  
Hermione's mouth fell open. She gasped. "Are you a house elf?"  
  
"I'm afraid the esteemed Professor has not yet introduced me." Stevens directed his monocle purposefully towards Snape.  
  
"Stevens," said Snape gesturing vaguely, "this is Hermione. Hermione, this is Stevens. You are now introduced."  
  
"A great pleasure to meet you. Such an uncommon name. Hermione Granger, I presume?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Ah yes. If I may be so bold, Miss, you are a topic of considerable conversation with the house elf ranks."  
  
"Why don't you talk like an elf? I don't mean that in a negative way, you speak very beautifully, but..."  
  
"It's a matter of common misconception that house are innately predisposed to a rather vulgar colloquial dialect. As in all cases, it's much a matter of breeding. I had the good fortune to come from a family where both my parents were decorated graduates of Elfton. As, I take no small pleasure in admitting, am I."  
  
"Elfton?" queried Hermione.  
  
"A kind of university for elves. I suppose if you thought in muggle terms it would be about the equivalent of Oxford, or Harvard,"supplied Severus helpfully.  
  
"I've often wondered why you don't direct your considerable energies towards aiding the university," mused Stevens, "I do admire your ambition Miss Granger, but your methods are rendered null and void by the overwhelming apathy of common house elves. 'Odi profanum vulgus et arceo' as quoth the good Horace."  
  
"Why don't I see more of you, though? Elves like you, that is. It must be a fair sized university."  
  
"Well, there are a few of us about. Many of us do embrace our unique, inherent drive to serve, and take up positions where we feel we can give something. It's a drive which leaves ambition by the wayside in some cases, but produces the most abnormally happy families. The trick is not giving so much that one loses oneself in the process. Others among us grow disgusted with our puny position within the wizarding world and flee it to enter muggle society. There, we wear bowler hats, and pass ourselves off as tax accountants."  
  
Hermione giggled at this, and then realized with a sudden chill that her family's elderly tax accountant was unusually short and wore a bowler hat.  
  
"How odd, though," murmured Hermione, "that I've never met another one."  
  
"What makes you so sure you haven't?" asked Severus, smirking meaningfully at Stevens.  
  
"Dobby?"  
  
Snape and Stevens both emitted rich, hearty chuckles.  
  
"Who then?"  
  
"Didn't you ever come into contact with Kreacher?"  
  
Hermione and Stevens both gasped in unison.  
  
"That evil little monster," shouted Hermione, "is a university graduate!?"  
  
"Oh, Kreacher," purred Stevens, clasping his hands to his heart "my dear mentor. He was a sweet old soul, and canny, canny like a fox. Still is. One of our more renowned professors. An expert in the manners in which a house elf can avoid certain contractual obligations through feigning insanity. Insanity and a whole host of other little things. Nobody can find a loophole like Professor Kreacher."  
  
"He's a professor?" asked a flabbergasted Hermione.  
  
"He had to leave the school for a time, apparently hooligans and hoydens were ravaging his ancestral home. The place where he'd been born, Miss Granger. Tearing up the paintings he grew up with. Defiling the name of the witch who treated him as a real child, who bounced him on her knee and read him Oscar Wilde's fairy tales. You'd never think that kind of nastiness could happen to a family so closely linked with the Malfoy dynasty."  
  
Hermione, who was looking perhaps a little shamefaced by now, enquired softly, "What does it have to do with the Malfoys?"  
  
"The Malfoys," said Stevens, with a jolt of surprise, "are one of Elfton's greatest benefactors. Certainly the greatest benefactor of the human variety. They've been champions of elf rights throughout the ages."  
  
"But he kicked Dobby."  
  
Stevens snorted. "If Dobby were around, so would I."  
  
"Because he's a blood traitor?" demanded Hermione.  
  
"Because he's a bloody imbecile," replied Severus."The Malfoys applaud intellectual ability as well as other traits that can help creatures rise to greatness. They have no tolerance for idiocy."  
  
"How fascinating," whispered Hermione, "how utterly fascinating."  
  
"Perhaps," interjected Dobby, "you could introduce the young lady to Mr. Malfoy and allow him to explain his position."  
  
"Difficult, what with him being in Azkaban, and all. But I could do the next best thing."  
  
"Take me down to Elfton?" asked an enthusiastic Hermione.  
  
"Wrong. Tomorrow afternoon, I'm taking you out to meet Narcissa. Wear something pretty." 


	6. Feeling Blue

No mortal eye - whether it be human or house elf, sparkling or dull – had ever beheld Narcissa Malfoy in a state other than melancholy. She was devoted to the aspects of her melancholy the way that lesser artists – Da'Vinci, for instance, Dickens or Rodin - were devoted to paint and paper and clay. She, like them, went through her bouts of inspired mutations. There was a period in particular, when she gnawed her lip in such a way as to indicate that she had lost a great love. It made a great many people exceedingly sad before she relinquished it. Picasso had his blue period, and Narcissa had her lip gnawing phase, and they both knew when to stop.  
  
In her latest incarnation her head drooped as perpetually and delicately as a gardenia on an August afternoon. She withered in an exquisitely aristocratic fashion amidst the heat of ill-bred humanity. Her fragile chin hovered sadly, but bravely, above her diamond encrusted neck. It has been wondered, aloud on occasion, what a woman with a diamond encrusted neck had to be melancholy about - but not by anyone with good taste.  
  
Those who are lucky enough to possess good taste were already well acquainted with Narcissa before they had ever met her. They've already seen the quiver of her rosy, petulant lips as the Lady of Shallot gazed out forlornly at Camelot, or as Ophelia's grass stained garments billowed about her waist. Those who had intelligence, as well as taste, could see in Narcissa's sadness a certain element of pretense. But they also recognized that she believed her own pretenses, and that was what made her extraordinary. "She's a phony, but she's a real phony," as was once said about a woman considerably less phony than Narcissa. But whatever could be said about Narcissa, whatever airs she put on, they were always in the very best of taste.  
  
Poor Hermione. She didn't know what she had gotten herself into.  
  
The failure of the meeting could perhaps have been credited to the fact that Severus, like most heterosexual men, knew nothing about women's fashion. When Hermione pressed for details on what constituted "wearing something pretty", Snape replied, sneering slightly, "A thing. Not a school robe. You know, a frock. Wear a frock."  
  
"Like a ballgown?" asked Hermione, "That seems awfully overdressed for an afternoon meeting. I wouldn't want to look pretentious."  
  
"Nothing too ruffly. I don't think she likes ruffles. You know, ruffles, those thingies that they have sometimes, on dresses. Stay away from those. No ruffles."  
  
"So nothing lacy, nothing overly feminine? She'd want more clean lines, something simpler? Nothing extravagant, you're saying?"  
  
"I'm doing you a favor you silly girl. Must you pester me with this ridiculous line of questioning?"  
  
She labored over her outfit. She agonized. Tears were shed – but only once, when she found out it wasn't advisable to cuddle Crookshanks while wearing anything black. When she was finished, she saw herself as the paragon of quiet, tasteful simplicity. It was worth pointing out that this wasn't the kind of thing she labored over often.  
  
Ron, at least, seemed to appreciate her choice in clothes. He sidled up to her the next morning, as she was crossing the common rooms and preparing to meet Professor Snape and muttered, sotto voce, "Hermione, I really like your pants. It's a fascinating fabric they're woven with. I'd like a pair made out of the same sort of cloth, really, I think it's great. And this is kind of embarrassing for me, because I probably should know, but I was wondering if you know what material they're made out of."  
  
"Um," replied Hermione, "Khaki."  
  
"Right," murmured Ron, "Khaki. I have to remember that."  
  
She had paired her pants with a sweater that was blue. She was working on the assumption that since blue was pretty, her sweater must also be pretty. This was not always the best assumption to work on.  
  
Professor Snape seemed more or less in accord with Ron. Of course, that could have been because he was in the midst of a conversation with Blaise Zambini when she approached him, and was somewhat distracted. As Hermione stared at Blaise's enormous hooded sweatshirt and large sweatpants she couldn't help speculating about his/her gender. Just before they flooed to the Malfoy manor she leaned over up to Severus' ear and whispered, "I'm sorry, but is Blaise a male or female? It's been troubling me for years."  
  
"Male," replied Severus, "but one with terrible gender issues. I think it's his parents fault for naming him Blaise."  
  
"How so?"  
  
"Well, what would you do if your name was Blaise? I mean I suppose as a female you could change it "Blaze" and become a stripper, but..."  
  
"No, I mean what kind of gender issues?"  
  
"He flips. He's androgynous . Some people out there see him as entirely female. I tried to get him to tell me the whole story, but he was not receptive. I was fairly nice about it. I cornered him, and I poked my finger at his chest, and I said "Male or female? Male or female!? MALE OR FEMALE?" and he started screaming about how I might live in a box but I wasn't going to put him in a box, because he's claustrophobic. And then he called me a gender fascist, and told me that if you knifed a puppet in the ass it would probably dance, but he wouldn't dance, because he wasn't my puppet. Then he called me Herr Puppet Fuhrer and sat down in a corner and started crying. I ran away. It was really scary."  
  
"I don't think a puppet would dance if you did that. I think it might just splinter."  
  
"Don't put the puppet in a box, Miss Granger. I approve of transsexuals, but frankly, the Blaise thing gets too confusing for me to manage."  
  
"I'm just relieved that someone else couldn't quite figure it out either."  
  
"Really, nobody can figure that one out. Shall we?"  
  
"Do I look alright?"  
  
"Well, you're not wearing school robes."  
  
Mere moments later Hermione found herself in what she could only assume was a greenhouse. Everywhere there were piles of flowers, the petals of gardenias and zebra orchids and lilies crushed into each other. Vines dripped down from pots suspended on the ceiling, giving them the appearance of overgrown party decorations. There was, however, a pronounced lack of yellow roses. (It's not a commonly known fact, but poor Voldemort was scared half to death of Narcissa Malfoy. She made him feel common, and stupid, and very, very ugly and he inevitably felt he was going to trip and make a fool of himself whenever he entered her house.)  
  
However, on closer inspection Hermione began to realize that it wasn't a hothouse at all; it was a sitting room. On the walls, shrinking back from the foliage, was a collection of impressionist paintings depicting pastel young wizards and witches seducing and destroying muggles in the nicest possible way. The rug was oriental in design and it displayed, in bright, sunny colors, tiny house elves dancing about, their mouths pursed open in song. And perched on a divan in the middle of all this finery was Narcissa Malfoy, in a simple white robe, which, as Severus had predicted, possessed no ruffles, but which unmistakably fetched a sum well into the triple digits.  
  
"Severus," Narcissa murmured, raising her troubled eyes to his, "you've brought the girl..."  
  
Back in his youth Severus had been one of the many, many men who had thought he might take Narcissa away and make her almost happy. Narcissa had made it clear that if he wanted her, he would have to become very rich and he would have to bathe twice a day. He hadn't minded the prospect of being very rich, but the bathing thing had made him twitchy. The relationship had been doomed from the start.  
  
"But why is she so ugly?" continued Narcissa, with a long and questioning sigh. "Why have you brought something so ugly to me? Do you want to hurt me? I can't imagine why. Such things she wears, clothes such as I dare not meet in dreams... she is hurting me. I am in pain. The ugliness, the unbearable ugliness! Physical pain. I think I'm going to die. She's killing me. She's killing me, Severus."  
  
"Do try to look more attractive, Miss Granger," Professor Snape insisted firmly.  
  
"I can't breath!" gasped Narcissa, her hands beginning to droop limply against the divan, her lips tightening in a rapid frown.  
  
"We'll hide her behind a flowerpot!" declared Severus.  
  
"Can't you cover her?" moaned Narcissa. "Just take off your cape and cover her. She burns my eyes! My poor languorous eyes!"  
  
"I thought the blue was pretty," stated Hermione sadly, who had now been thrust behind a large pot of purple hyacinths.  
  
"Blue..." whispered Narcissa, "blue is pretty. Sometimes, when I'm very sad," she cast her orb like eyes up at Severus, who patted her hand reassuringly, "I think about how blue my blood is. It is blue, the bluest this fading world has probably ever known. Sometimes, I surprise myself with a gesture or a look so pureblooded that I wonder where it comes from. It comes from my mother, of course. Though the height of her ambition was simply to tumble the odd visiting vicar, now and again. That, and to get the bloody house elves to repair the leaky plumbing. I have higher ambitions; I just don't know what they are quite yet."  
  
"But," explained Severus, "that's exactly what we came to talk to you about. Your volunteer work!"  
  
"Which cause?"  
  
"Elfton."  
  
"Oh," sighed Narcissa, her lips puckering prettily into a yawn, "you mean Lucius's cause. Don't tell anyone, but I'm just in for the parties. Such beautiful people at those parties... unless they let the elves in. Elves can be so common. Although I like Stevens. And Kreacher has panache. I suppose Bellatrix would never forgive me if I didn't approve of Kreacher. But you know. Undergraduates."  
  
"But," Hermione said, her head popping slightly above the flowers, causing Narcissa to flinch, "I was wondering if you could tell me about the history of the institution? Or perhaps the specific programs? House elf curriculum must be rather different than anything we could expect."  
  
"Is that really all you came to talk to me about?" Narcissa seemed deeply bewildered.  
  
"Well, if you had any other information I'd love to hear it. House elves are kind of a passion of mine, and this is a really new area that I just learned about. It would really interest me a great deal."  
  
"Dear girl," she murmured, "are you aware that in coming here you interrupted something of much greater importance than any of your passions?"  
  
"I'm sorry," replied Hermione, "what was that?"  
  
"My mid-morning nap."  
  
Hermione gasped. "Are you really that self-absorbed?"  
  
"Oh yes. It's quite justified. I've never found any other subject worth half so much of my time. Don't worry, I like me like this."  
  
"Well," declared Hermione, stepping out from behind the urn, "if that's really true, then I think you must be very lonely. I feel very sorry for you."  
  
She turned on her heel, and strode determinedly through the room, and was halfway down the stairs before she realized that Professor Snape had the floo powder and she had no way to get home. "Oh, hell," she thought as she walked into the entrance hall where she stood for a few minutes, gnawing her thumbnail and contemplating how having to wait for Professor Snape to come down was playing havoc with the flair of her dramatic exit. Just as she was trying to decide whether she could storm up the stairs and demand to leave while still maintaining a sense of dignity, a brunette, clad in dark green robes and clutching a glittering snake shaped purse, stepped through the doorway. Upon seeing her, Hermione's mouth refashioned itself into a tiny oval, and she seemed ready to turn and flee at a rapid pace, when the woman, meeting her gaze steadily, and smirking only slightly, remarked, "Hello."  
  
"Have we met?" enquired Hermione.  
  
"I don't believe so. If you remember that we have," replied Bellatrix, "you must dwell more on the past than I do."  
  
"Ah. I see."  
  
"Have you been visiting Narcissa?"  
  
"I tried to."  
  
"Tried?"  
  
"They made me hide behind a flowerpot."  
  
"Oh," Bellatrix laughed, "you got off easy. I'm her own sis – her own cousin, and I'm not allowed to speak to her. I just have to sit there silently. When I speak I say ugly things that make her want to kill herself."  
  
"I made her want to kill herself! Is there anything seriously wrong with her?"  
  
"Nothing twenty rounds of Avada Kedavra wouldn't fix."  
  
Hermione paled, and looked quite nervous.  
  
"Oh, don't worry," said Bellatrix, "it's just an expression."  
  
"From where? Transylvania?"  
  
Bellatrix laughed. "So," she said, depositing her purse on the mantelpiece, where it wriggled menacingly, "which flowerpot did they have you behind?"  
  
"The hyacinths."  
  
"Good choice. She once caught me in my work robes, and they were so unattractive she started suffocating and I had to dart behind the peonies. They were rotting too. God, I hate the smell of rotting peonies. There are entirely too many flowers up there. Do you like that look?"  
  
"I hold with Apollionaire. He said 'I prize fruit-'"  
  
"'- and hold flowers in disdain.'" finished Bellatrix. "You know Apollionaire. Well, that's formidable. And you're so young. What were you seeing Narcissa about? Certainly not to talk nineteenth century thinkers. They might say ugly things."  
  
"No, I wanted to ask her about Elfton."  
  
"You're interested in house elves, then! How wonderful, so am I."  
  
"Do you know anything about it?"  
  
"I can find some things out for you. I know a professor there; he was my tutor growing up. Well, tutor, nanny, confidant, you know how it is. We were very close. I don't get to see him as much as I'd like now, but I still visit him a good deal. He'd certainly have a syllabus and probably a lesson plan for his classes."  
  
"I'd really appreciate that."  
  
"It's my pleasure. Would you like to come out with me? Have a drink? I was going to visit Narcissa, but she can usually only manage about one visitor a day."  
  
"I'd love to, but I have to get back to school. I've got a paper I need to finish editing before tomorrow. Some other time. Do you have any floo powder, incidentally? The man I came with seems to have abandoned me."  
  
"Always. Men are so unreliable. Who brought you? Not one of Narcissa's groupies."  
  
"I think he may be. Professor Snape."  
  
"Severus Snape?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"So you must be Miss Granger. I thought so. He left you hiding behind a flowerpot? The bastard. Well, don't take it too hard. He's a little stupid, sometimes, but he's not a bad sort. Not a nice sort either, but not a bad sort."  
  
"I'd go more with the bastard line of reasoning, myself." Hermione stated, as she approached the fireplace. "And if you see him, you can feel free to tell him that I said so."  
  
A/N: The "phony, but a real phony" mentioned is Holly Golightly, out of Truman Capote's Breakfast at Tiffany's. 


	7. Feeling Tangerine

It's perhaps a tribute to the disorganized, carefree nature of the Death Eaters – the same disorganized, carefree nature that caused them to persistently forget about attacking Harry Potter until the very end of the year, every single year – that two of the most feared figures in the wizarding world were sitting on Bellatrix Lestrange's canopy bed, happily trading a plate of cookies back and forth. Bellatrix, who had no time for such frivolities, sat at her desk with an arsenal of nail products lined up like tiny soldiers before her. She had decided to change the world by changing her nail polish.  
  
"I don't think anyone who wears turquoise nail polish could be seen as entirely evil, do you?" she asked.  
  
"Why don't you wear black nail polish? Black is a very..." Severus paused to eat another oatmeal raisin cookie, "a very underrated color."  
  
"Severus, the idea is to show people that I'm a nice person. To me, turquoise says, "I enjoy deworming orphans in Somalia, and I do it with a brilliant and loveable smile. Aren't my well proportioned teeth shiny?" It has a modern, joyous feel. If it had a scent it would smell like disinfectant. But a nice disinfectant."  
  
"I sincerely hope that no one who deworms orphans in Somalia wears nail polish of any kind. I can only imagine the infections it would breed."  
  
"It's symbolic, Severus," replied Bellatrix, her voice lilting in such a way as to inform him that he was an idiot.  
  
"Now, turquoise," replied Voldemort, as a chocolate chip dislodged itself from the cookie and wobbled on his chin, before beginning its descent into Bellatrix's sheets, "that's interesting. These cookies are wonderful, incidentally. To me, turquoise says, 'I am strident. In a fight, I would probably poke my fingers in your eyes, and it would hurt a lot. I read Shakespeare, but my favorite one is Titus Andronicus. I hate your children, but I will bring them gifts so that you can't tell.' It's the color of duplicity. That's what turquoise says to me."  
  
"Really!" cried Bellatrix. "Now to me a hearty maroon says "Titus Andronicus is my favorite play, and it's very underrated.' Actually, I think it also says, 'I don't like any other Shakespearean plays except Titus Andronicus, and I'm aware that Titus was written as a parody, but I try to avoid mentioning that fact when I allude to it, because I worry that it means it's not a serious work. Can parodies be serious works?' There's something erudite but a tiny bit insecure about maroon."  
  
"I like maroon a great deal," Voldemort replied. "It's old world, European; there's something subtly depraved about it. If I were a French symbolist I would say it conjures up the word 'boudoir.' It's a color that feels like something the communists would have labeled as decadent, and as a rule, I believe strongly in everything the communists labeled as decadent."  
  
"Maybe I should paint them maroon?" suggested Bellatrix.  
  
"But it could also symbolize bloodlust. Which seems a little angry."  
  
"How do you feel about tangerine?"  
  
Lord Voldemort looked about to reply, but then suddenly turned and caught sight of Severus, who had been staring at his half-consumed cookie for the past few minutes and had begun mumbling unintelligible things to himself.  
  
"Are you alright?" asked Voldemort.  
  
"Hmm?" said Professor Snape. "Sorry. Just a bit distracted."  
  
"You've been missing the colors-we-have-enjoyed bonanza," pointed out Bellatrix, "what's the matter?"  
  
"It's just... did she really say I was a bastard? It seems a touch harsh."  
  
"Sevvie, you left her hiding behind a flowerpot, and then you stranded her so you could talk to an old girlfriend. You were a bastard. I would have killed you. It would have been brutal and painful. I would have enjoyed it. Oh dear, maybe that's why I don't do well at relationships."  
  
"I think many men are just intimidated by your passion," replied Voldemort softly.  
  
"But I'm normally a bastard. It's something everyone accepts."  
  
"No, no, Severus, you're mean and cruel usually, but it's pointed cruelty. And there's a beautiful aspect to it, like watching a muggle swordsman defeat another man in battle. There's no beauty to watching some careless twat with a gun accidentally kill someone else."  
  
"What are you talking about Bellatrix?"  
  
"I take it any emotional wound you did the Granger girl was unintentional?"  
  
"Precisely."  
  
"Thus inferring that you did not – would not – inflict deliberate emotional harm upon her?"  
  
"Exactly."  
  
"You would refrain from doing so out of concern for her emotional state?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Hurting her would afford you no pleasure?"  
  
"I agree."  
  
"So you do like her!"  
  
"I didn't say that."  
  
"Yes you do, otherwise you wouldn't give a damn. You always like baiting people. Seeing other people in emotional distress always affords you pleasure unless you particularly like someone. You're infatuated with her, aren't you!?"  
  
"I'm not even going to justify that with an answer."  
  
"Well, why not? She's really wonderful Severus; I had a lovely chat with her. Did you know she likes house elves? I must introduce her to Kreacher sometime!"  
  
"I'm loathe to interrupt," stated Voldemort, "but could someone tell me what's going on?"  
  
"He took Hermione Granger to meet Narcissa. Narcissa responded in the way she's always responded upon meeting an uncultured seventeen year old. Or is she eighteen? I suppose it's not terribly important."  
  
"Oh," said Voldemort with a slight quiver, as he bit his lower lip with a fang, "Narcissa."  
  
"I don't understand why everyone dislikes her," mentioned Snape, "I think she's a very sensitive woman."  
  
Bellatrix snorted and turned her attention back to her nail polish.  
  
"Dislike her?" said Voldemort. "Not at all. I'm intimidated by her; I would never want to be left alone in a room with her, because once she saw me after... after the accident and started screaming "ugly, ugly" and tried to throw herself out the window."  
  
"That bitch," muttered Bellatrix.  
  
"I often wish," Voldemort continued with a sigh, "that I still had hair. If I had hair, I could spend an inordinate amount of time on it, and grow it out to fantastic lengths, and then maybe nobody would notice that my face looks like a sketch by Picasso. All that aside though, I'm grateful to her. Who but a woman like Narcissa could bankrupt Lucius Malfoy?"  
  
"I didn't know Lucius was bankrupt," mused Bellatrix idly, as she shook a bottle of polish.  
  
"Of course he is," declared Voldemort, "a man like Lucius doesn't join a rebel faction just for the fun of it. He's too canny for that. I generously provide the funds he needs to maintain his patronage network – connections which prove beneficial to us all – through the occasional bout of conspicuous consumption."  
  
"You don't give me money," noted Severus, "I have to scrimp by on a teacher's salary. You mean you've been financing the Malfoys all these years?"  
  
"Severus, Lucius had a unique ability to deal well with high ranking figures. I needed someone in society. Let's not be petty. Are you planning to apologize?"  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
"To that agreeable Granger girl. You've insulted her; an apology might not go amiss. Bear in mind that this is a situation where I would have no qualms with Crucio-ing you should you not agree."  
  
Severus raised his eyebrows in polite wonder, and smirked with the left side of his face in an expression that signified, 'I so respect the vigor of your opinions, however much they call to mind the ravings of madman.'  
  
"You needn't actually say you're sorry, you know. There are other ways," noted Bellatrix, who, herself, could think of quite a number of other ways to make people express remorse and subjugation.  
  
"You could send flowers, for instance," said Voldemort.  
  
Bellatrix smirked. "Good idea. Try hyacinths."  
  
"Or chocolates."  
  
"Because she's probably feeling really good about her body after the run in with Narcissa. Personally, after a visit with Narcissa, I always decide that I'm going live off wheat germ. But I'm sure that Hermione is a much more secure individual."  
  
"You're not helping, Bellatrix," stated Severus.  
  
"Let me choose the gift," suggested Voldemort, "I could find something appropriate."  
  
"The last time you gave her a gift you gave her a human skull."  
  
"She didn't like it?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Oh. I'm sorry. I thought it was an especially beautiful one."  
  
"If you gave me a skull," murmured Bellatrix, gazing steadfastly down at the table, "I would have appreciated it."  
  
"Really?" replied Voldemort, smiling timidly.  
  
"Uh-huh," murmured Bellatrix, blushing slightly.  
  
"I collect them, you know. I have one that used to belong to Byron. It's the skull of a medieval monk. Byron drank claret out of it. Would you like to come over to my house some evening and see them? We could maybe even try drinking claret out of it." Voldemort's little crimson pupils were dilated with longing.  
  
"That sounds wonderful," sighed Bellatrix.  
  
"If you two need privacy, I can go on my way," stated Severus.  
  
"Well, we might have a few things that we should talk over, Bella and I," declared the Dark Lord.  
  
"And I have to finish my nails."  
  
"I'll walk you out," suggested Voldemort.  
  
As the two men strode through the grassy gardens – overwhelmed though they might have been with topiaries of snakes and skulls – towards the portkey Severus wondered aloud.  
  
"What did you do with Rudolphus? You didn't kill him, did you?"  
  
"I sent him off to Mongolia to find kappas."  
  
"My Lord.... It's a very easy mistake to make, I've made it myself, but they're actually Japanese. He won't have much success in Mongolia."  
  
"Really. You don't say. Well, I hope someone tells him about it. The poor fellow will be out there for months. Months, and months, and months. Lots of months! Lots and lots of them! Maybe he'll die. Wouldn't that be awful? I certainly would hate it if he should die."  
  
"I see."  
  
"Before you go, allow me to impart to you one suggestion on an appropriate peace offering. I used to use it quite a lot as a student when I was dating Ravenclaws..."  
  
Severus found himself the next afternoon sprinting through the hallways as though he was being pursued by a pack of dementors.  
  
He had intended to go to Hermione's Head Girl's room and inconspicuously slip a note under the door expressing his regrets, and his desire to meet with her at eight that evening. This plan was foiled when he realized, halfway up the flight of stairs, that the doors of the Head Girl's room had to remain partially open, not enough to seriously inconvenience the resident, but enough for teachers passing by to insure that nothing untoward was occurring within the room. He realized that this meant that, if Miss Granger were inside her room, she would probably see him, and she might yell at him, and then he would look as though he were involved in a relationship with a student in which she felt it was her right to yell at him. That wouldn't do at all.  
  
Upon his arrival, he thought of lingering outside in the hallways until he could ascertain whether or not Miss Granger was on the premises, but, after Professor Flitwick shot him a dirty look, he realized that he might seem like the kind of Professor who would linger outside Head Girl's rooms in the hopes of seeing something which he had no lascivious intent to see. That wouldn't do either.  
  
So he crammed the note through her door, and fled – fled as he'd never fled a menacing pack of aurors or the mauderers of his youth. In his haste, he bumped into Susan Bones, and proceeded to deduct twenty points from Hufflepuff.  
  
"Pardon me, sir," replied Susan haughtily, "But Albus... Professor Dumbledore... says that you aren't allowed to deduct points from me anymore."  
  
"Why on earth not you stupid, disagreeable girl?"  
  
"He's my Godfather. I suggest you take it up with him. Or I could. I don't think he'd be pleased. It would be easier all around if you just added the points back on."  
  
Professor Snape was dumbfounded. "I can't believe you have the unprecedented gall to attempt intimidation tactics on me. You can send Albus to talk to me about it. Anytime."  
  
He stormed off, his robes billowing behind him like a beetle.  
  
And he waited. He waited patiently. Around 7:55 he began drumming his fingers on the tabletop. At 8:02 he decided that Miss Granger was probably being late to be belligerent. At 8:04 he decided that there was, after all, a possibility that she didn't receive his note. At 8:05 he began to decide that she was a silly schoolgirl, and all of this was absurd. And at 8:06 Hermione Granger swept into the room like the Avenging Wrath of God.  
  
"Talk," she demanded.  
  
"I brought you a gift. Flowers."  
  
"Professor Snape, I find it highly inappropriate for you to give me flowers at this point in time."  
  
"See?" declared Professor Snape proudly brandishing two books before her, "I got you both Flowers for Algernon and Les Fleurs du Mal. I wasn't sure which you'd prefer. The Algernon is an early edition, but I personally think you'll get more intellectual satisfaction out of the Baudelaire."  
  
"That is somewhat clever. But it's no excuse. How could you leave me there? And really, how could you just agree with that horrible woman when she told me I was ugly."  
  
"Well you must admit, Miss Granger..."  
  
Hermione looked about to burst into tears.  
  
"I don't mean that you're ugly. I don't think you're ugly. But I did tell you to try to look pretty."  
  
"I did!"  
  
"It would seem Narcissa didn't think so."  
  
"Because she's a horrible woman!"  
  
"Not just that, she's an aesthete. She's finely tuned, some would say unpleasantly so, towards beauty. Did you every read "The Fall of the House of Usher?" No, actually, that's a bad example. Against Nature by Huysmans, that makes more sense."  
  
"Sorry. I'm both unattractive and ignorant." Hermione seemed on the verge of tears once again.  
  
"Don't say that. You're the most intelligent Gryffindor I know."  
  
"Only Gryffindor?" enquired Hermione.  
  
"It would be the general consensus among all teachers that you're clever. I see no reason to harp upon the point, Miss Granger."  
  
"Of course, Professor," said Hermione, straightening her posture and flicking any traces of mistiness from her eyes.  
  
"Against Nature is about this man who loves beauty so much that he shuts himself off from the rest of the world so that he can live surrounded by good food and paintings and all sorts of other lovely things. It's not so much a book with a plot as it is an encyclopedia of decadence. It details the main character's attempt to turn his life into a work of art. Narcissa is exactly like that."  
  
"I still think she's perfectly horrible."  
  
"You're entitled."  
  
"It wasn't a total loss, though. I had a nice chat with some woman in the hallway. But why did you have to side with Narcissa? I suppose I thought we might be... not friends exactly, I wouldn't presume, but... kind to each other."  
  
"I heard about that chat. Miss Granger, I think there's something I must tell you. As a friend. Or if not a friend then perhaps as a man – yes, as a man who's made some bad choices. Or good choices, I suppose. Depends on who you talk to. So I'm speaking to you as a man – a man who's made choices."  
  
"I'm sorry Professor, but I don't what you're talking about."  
  
"It pertains to Willard. To Willard, and also to the woman you met."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"They're Death Eaters, Miss Granger. Willard is otherwise known as Voldemort."  
  
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Professor. I knew that. Don't try to change the subject."  
  
"You knew?"  
  
"Of course. I've just been being really, really polite about it."  
  
"How?"  
  
"I'm the smartest Gryffindor you know, and Voldemort's face is one of the most easily recognized in the wizarding world. I saw him leaving your chambers one day, and I panicked, and I was going to call someone and save the school, but he was skipping. It was kind of endearing. Skipping and holding this dead sprig of flowers. And I decided it would be better not to die. And then he introduced himself to me as Willard, and I figured if he wanted to kill us all he would have done it, he wouldn't try to pretend to be a caretaker, so I just went along with it. He's actually not such a bad sort. Not that I approve of his policies. And he is a very strange man. But I understand why you'd keep in touch."  
  
"And you know the woman is..."  
  
"Bellatrix Lestrange. Yes. And I'm furious about Sirius for Harry's sake, but it was in the midst of a battle. Perhaps if we tried to understand each other things like that wouldn't happen anymore. Gandhi said, 'An eye for an eye leaves us all blind.' I think that's true, don't you?"  
  
"Miss Granger, you're a marvel. Narcissa is a silly, silly woman."  
  
"Thank you, Professor Snape. I know I am. But it's nice to hear you say it."  
  
"I don't mean that in any way to imply that I think you're a marvel, it has nothing to with my subjective opinion, it's just that your response towards these events..."  
  
"You could leave it at the 'marvel' thing, Professor."  
  
"Indeed, Miss Granger."  
  
"There is one thing I'd like though. And if you could see to it, I'd consider the Narcissa incident completely behind us."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Mrs. Lestrange said that she had some information on Elfton. I'd really like to see it, I'm still terribly interested. She said she'd be willing to meet with me."  
  
"Would you like to meet with her?"  
  
"Could you talk to Willard as well? I'd like to talk to both of them. Do they get along all right? I don't want to force them to convene together if they positively hate each other."  
  
"Oh, I don't think they hate each other. Are you going to keep calling him Willard?"  
  
"Do you think it would bother him?"  
  
"I think some perverse part of his personality might find it charming."  
  
"Good then. I've got used to calling him Willard. I'd hate to have to switch over to something like, "Your Grandiose Majesty of Darkness." I mean, it would be very hard to call someone you've seen skipping a Majesty of Darkness."  
  
"He'd probably enjoy seeing you, especially now that he knows that you know. Next Sunday?"  
  
"All right. But one thing..."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Tell me precisely, in explicit detail, what I ought to wear..." 


	8. The Cat's Meow

Shortly after the four wizards and witches convened, Voldemort began to delicately stroke the pad of Bellatrix's thumb with one of his own bony, rather bloodied fingers. He had decided sometime earlier that their relationship was rapidly advancing to the handholding stage and had prepared appropriately. While all the perfumes in Arabia may have notoriously failed for Lady Macbeth, they succeeded in endowing Voldemort's paws with the endearing scent of gardenias. Hermione thought it looked quite painful, having your thumb poked by a claw like that, but Bellatrix didn't seem to mind. Miss Granger glanced down to the notepad in front of her, in which her questions had been scripted in intricate detail. She wondered if they were pointed enough. Meanwhile, Bellatrix wondered whether everyone approved of her nail polish (aubergine.) Voldemort wondered if he could grab Bellatrix by the hand (which he found was looking temptingly white against those aubergine nails) and wrestle her to the ground, where he would ravish her in a mad, lascivious tussle. Severus wondered whether or not this meeting was a good idea.  
  
"So," asked Hermione, "Why do you never attack Hogwarts until late May? Do you just forget?"  
  
"Maybe it has something to do with forgetfulness," suggested Bellatrix. "I mean, we're not really planners. Remember that fable by Aesop about the ant and the grasshopper? The ant spends the summer collecting food for the winter, and the grasshopper spends the summer playing his fiddle and dancing? We're more the grasshopper."  
  
"But the grasshopper dies," Hermione replied with a faint look of horror.  
  
"Maybe in your version," stated Bellatrix, "in my version, the grasshopper lands a record deal and buys a penthouse in Madrid where it never gets too cold. Life must not be very much fun if you live according to the precepts of your version."  
  
Severus and Voldemort both looked bewildered – Severus in response to Bellatrix, and Voldemort as his reasons for delaying an attack Hogwarts were quite different, indeed. "Well," he stated, "if we didn't attack in late May, how would you know we were coming?"  
  
"Pardon?" asked Hermione.  
  
"It wouldn't be proper to do it without warning. This way you're prepared. I mean, if we attacked in the middle of February, certainly, we could kill everyone, but there would be no sporting element to it, Miss Granger. It simply wouldn't be cricket. It would also interrupt your school work horribly."  
  
"So you refrain because you... don't want to interrupt any mid-terms?"  
  
"As a Dark Lord, I like my actions to be seen as magnificent and horrible. I don't want them to be marginalized to such an extent that they're just a nuisance."  
  
"Oh!" cried Bellatrix, snaking her index finger about Voldemort's wrist, "I almost forgot! Elfton. I brought you a syllabus. I'm afraid my friend there isn't too fond of you though – is it true you tried to demolish his childhood home? Apparently he was only able to save a few pictures of me and Auntie. He was awfully blue about it. I think he feels he's failed on some level, poor dear."  
  
"So moving along then," murmured Hermione hurriedly, "if you don't see yourselves as good or evil, how do you see yourselves? Where do you fit in the moral spectrum?"  
  
Bellatrix stared for a moment at the red daisies floating in a pool beside her, before remarking, "I see myself as the kind of woman who can drink a glass of Bordeaux without leaving those disgusting lipstick stains on the side of the glass."  
  
"That's not a slot marked on my moral spectrum." Hermione said. She held up her moral spectrum illustration to demonstrate.  
  
"No, no, it's much more descriptive," exclaimed Bellatrix, "you see, first off, it shows them I'm fastidious. I have a personality that's finicky about things being messy - I like them to be done well, even if it means going out of my way to do them well. It demonstrates that I maintain my femininity - the lipstick - yet I want to be able to be taken as seriously as a male counterpart. Men don't leave lipstick stains, neither do I. It shows that I drink Bordeaux, which is indicative of my good breeding – yet it's not a dainty little drink that I can see Narcissa guzzling. It's not a kir royale, for instance, but it's not firewhisky either. I can picture the grapes going into the Bordeaux being harvested by barefooted bronzed men in the hills of France, and I feel for them, which shows that there is so much of the peasant in me. I am not an indoors aristocrat. I could caper about with them, singing their provincial songs, wild, and grape stained, and free! I could drink rough red wine, and sit with my aging lover on the sun baked rocks at midday, and then I'd go inside our humble hut, and tie on my apron to make pasta, while he goes off to pluck more grapes."  
  
"Uh-huh," replied Hermione, finishing her notes and drawing a small grape and smiling peasant next to Bellatrix's response. "Where do you fit, Professor Snape?"  
  
"I wasn't finished," noted Bellatrix.  
  
"I'm sort of good, Miss Granger. But then, I'm sort of not. Put me halfway down on the moral spectrum."  
  
Hermione marked away dutifully before turning her attention to Lord Voldemort. "It's my turn?" asked Voldemort, "Oh, this is such fun. Well, I'm someone who likes Venice. Staring out on the waters from the balcony is quite an experience. I'd die there, if I were going to die at all, which I'm not. I also like the color aubergine." He paused, and beamed shyly at Bellatrix. "I'm someone who's been known to dance naked in front of a mirror, just to watch the light play on my scales. I'm someone who has an unusual empathy for lizards. I'm someone partial to strawberry ice-cream. I'm someone who used to be very sexually driven, but there are far fewer women interested after... the accident... so I'm a solitary figure. I'm a lot like James Dean, you know. I'm a good figure, but I'm not a saint, yet. I'm a murderer. I'm a demonic overlord. I'm immortal. I'm a mudblood. I'm a genius. I'm a God. And I like peanut brittle, too."  
  
"Would you say that ranks high on the moral spectrum?" asked Hermione, turning to face Severus.  
  
"Put him at exactly the same spot you put me," replied Professor Snape.  
  
Voldemort seemed about to protest when a frantic thumping was heard outside the door.  
  
"Oh, God," said Bellatrix, "Should we apparate? It might be aurors."  
  
The thumping continued at the same monotonous rate.  
  
"I think they would have come in by now," mentioned Voldemort, as he walked towards the door, and peered through the keyhole. Voldemort chuckled and flung open the door to reveal a toddler with wild, frizzy hair and an enormous nose. The child weaved its way towards Hermione, placed its grubby pink hand upon her knee, and pronounced, with deep solemnity, "Moo. Moo, moo, moo." Hermione drew back her notes in horror. The toddler then began her path towards Severus – falling once, but bravely bearing on, and upon reaching him declared, "Duck. Da Duck."  
  
Voldemort nodded politely, and withdrew to the kitchen.  
  
"Oh, no," whispered Bellatrix, as the child sat resolutely at Professor Snape's feet, despite the fact that the Professor had turned upon it with his best sneer, "oh no, that would be too, too horrible."  
  
"What? What would be?" enquired Hermione.  
  
"Well, by 'Moo," stated Bellatrix, "the child clearly means 'ma.' And by 'duck' she means 'da' or 'dad.' She must belong to you."  
  
"That's absurd," said Severus. "For one thing I would absolutely never raise a child to address me as 'dad.' He would call me sir, or, on a particularly affectionate day 'pater.'"  
  
"Oh, if only it were so absurd," breathed Bellatrix, "just look at it. That hair! That nose!"  
  
"It hasn't been a very good month for feeling attractive," sighed Hermione, "my hair really isn't that awful."  
  
"It's clearly your illegitimate offspring sent to this specific destination in a bizarre time turner accident!"  
  
"Illegitimate?" said Snape, "I bred a bastard?"  
  
"Unless you're happily married in the future," suggested Bellatrix blithely.  
  
"You," replied Hermione, pointing at Snape with a trembling finger, "you raped me, didn't you? I'll lock you up for this. I'll see you rot in Azkaban. It was probably a teenage pregnancy wasn't it? How could you Professor? I have aspirations; I have projects, for God's sake. Just right now, for instance, I've been trying to breed lilacs out of dead land. Well, now that's over with, isn't it?"  
  
"I'm shocked that you would consider this my fault," replied Severus, "clearly you tried to trick me into a marriage by impregnating yourself. Or worse, you probably didn't even tell me about the child, did you? You've just been keeping it for yourself to insure that I wouldn't take action with the ministry and obtain sole custody. You wench."  
  
"You want sole custody? Take the illegitimate bastard, I don't want it. It certainly doesn't seem clever enough to be mine. It can't even enunciate 'mama' properly."  
  
"Mama!" replied the possibly illegitimate, time turner carrying child of the future, "mama!"  
  
"See?"replied Severus. "See what you've done?"  
  
"See!" replied the child. "See!"  
  
Voldemort trotted back in, rubbed his hands together briskly and stated brightly "Well, that's all taken care of. Can we carry on with the questions? I thought they were a lot of fun."  
  
"How can you think of that now?" cried Hermione.  
  
"Really," replied Voldemort, "I'm aware that you and Severus may not like children, but there's no reason to be so dramatic about it. It shouldn't change anything you're doing here. Just carry on."  
  
"You're right," murmured Hermione bravely, "we must just carry on, as best we can."  
  
"It's not too late for an abortion!" declared Severus.  
  
"But it's alive now. That's murder," noted Hermione, who seemed to be considering the prospect nonetheless.  
  
It was at that moment that a light rapping emanated once again from the other side of the door. Voldemort opened it, and a frazzled looking woman with a long nose and untamable hair walked though, scooped up the child – who was recently thought to have been a time traveling product of teenage pregnancy - and exclaimed, "Matilda!."  
  
"Moo," replied Matilda, scrambling back towards Severus.  
  
The woman turned and embraced Voldemort, and then stated, in a breathy babble, "I don't know what could have happened! We were playing the farm game in the garden and I turned to fetch something to get rid of the Jarveys and she must have wandered off. I'm so sorry. Thank goodness you managed to find her, Willard!"  
  
"It's my pleasure," noted Voldemort, as Mrs. Mullivan took Matilda – who seemed emotionally attached to Severus's legs by this point, a fact which repulsed Snape considerably – by the hand, and led her from the room, proclaiming she would have no more adventures until she was eleven and a student at Hogwarts, at which point she would have to fight Basilisks on a semi-regular basis.  
  
"Who was that?" Bellatrix asked.  
  
"Mrs. Mullivan. She lives across the street. Matilda's her little girl. I was just in the kitchen contacting her. Didn't you know?"  
  
A languorous hush descended upon the inhabitants of the room. After a few moments, Hermione stated, with a light twinge of guilt, "I'm sorry, Professor. I know you'd never rape me. But be aware that if you did, under any circumstances – whether they be too much firewhiskey or some bizarre quasi-magical dark impulse that you don't often reveal – I would not find it an exciting type of foreplay. I would find it to be a repugnant abuse of power. And I wouldn't decide to settle down with you and start picking out curtains for the nursery. I would throw you into Azkaban really, really fast."  
  
"Quite appropriate, Miss Granger. You needn't worry about the firewhiskey though, I don't drink."  
  
"Ah. Alcoholic father? I understand. My father had a problem with nitrous oxide. He's a dentist, you know."  
  
"That's a terrible pity, but no. My father wasn't a nice man, by any standards, but not every abusive parent is necessarily an alcoholic. I just don't drink; I prefer to be in control."  
  
"I'm sorry," said Hermione, looking intensely uncomfortable.  
  
Voldemort, who had shifted so that he was pressed against Bellatrix on the couch, whispered, "Look, Bella! They're OTP!"  
  
"Pardon me?" replied Bellatrix.  
  
"One True Pairing. I read it in a muggle story. It's a silly phrase. I thought everybody was using it, these days. I'm worried a little, being immortal that I'm going to end up seeming rather behind in the modern world. Then I'll never have a chance with a sophisticated modern witch. I'll have to resign myself to hags like Minerva."  
  
Bellatrix leaned over, blew lightly in his ear slit and whispered "I think you're copasetic. The elephant's eyebrows, even." Outdoor aristocrat Bellatrix might have been, and fashionable though she was, she wasn't the most modern of witches.  
  
Voldemort snuggled closer and whispered in response, "Really? Because I think you're the eel's hips."  
  
"Umm," declared Hermione briskly, tapping her notepad with her quill, "I think we should carry on, now."  
  
Voldemort straightened himself up into a position more becoming of a Dark Lord.  
  
"Now," said Hermione, "Harry received a scar on his forehead from you. Did you receive a similar scar in turn?"  
  
"Maybe you didn't fully grasp what happened in the accident. I died. I had to live a slimy spirit thing in the forest, reassembling myself. I am a scar."  
  
"So do you experience physical pain when you feel yourself in Harry's presence?"  
  
"Why would I?"  
  
"Because Harry does when he feels you advancing. His scar aches."  
  
"I doubt it."  
  
"What?"  
  
"As we established, I'm advancing for the entire year. I don't think there's particularly good evidence that Harry's not just being dramatic. Or that he gets," Voldemort affected astonishment, "prepare yourself for this – the occasional migraine. Just like other people."  
  
"Oh. Really?"  
  
"Toss him some Advil, and see how he reacts. If that doesn't take, he may have a brain tumor."  
  
'Advil' Hermione scrawled into her notebook. "On a more serious note, is it true that you believe muggles to be inferior to wizards?"  
  
"That's not a belief. That's an objective truth. Well, I suppose it could be dependent on what you mean by superior, but if you qualify it by our sheer force over the world surrounding us, I suspect we hold the upper hand. Our beasts are more dangerous, our lives are longer, and our powers allow us to accomplish our daily tasks with such efficiency that we have twice the time left over for arcane intellectual pursuits than any muggle would. Now – that doesn't mean that I hate muggles. I do resent them to a certain extent because maintaining their ignorance of our culture requires a great deal of time and energy. Think of the multitudes in the ministry assigned to act as a liaison with the muggle community. Those people could be using their energies more fruitfully by working with beings who have direct impact upon our culture yet remain largely unwilling to share their knowledge with us, such as centaurs or giants, or merepeople – yet instead, their efforts are spent working to appease a community that we have no desire for any significant interaction with. Now, even with those efforts being taken – and constantly draining the energies of some of the most competent wizards and witches in the ministry, to my mind it's a total inevitability that eventually muggles will be drawn into a wizarding conflict. And when that happens there's no conceivable way they'll be able to defend themselves. Their guns will be rendered useless against invisible enemies, they'll be confronted with poisons no technology could detect and they'll be unable to restrain a wizard within any jail. It's in their best interest, as well as ours, that we cut off all interaction between the two societies."  
  
"Hence the pureblood fixation."  
  
"It's not the actual introduction of muggle-borns into the wizarding world that I mind. It's the simultaneous introduction of their muggle parents into the world. The child I can trust – somewhat – not to tell their schoolmates that they're a wizard. And if they do, at the age of eleven, that would be viewed as an absurd lie. Most adults will allow a child's sanity some leeway until the child reaches thirteen. But when parents get together, and begin discussing this brave new world of ours, and wanting to share the news, well, I hope you can understand why that would unnerve me. If the child were plucked from say, an orphanage, as I was, well, that's not such a worry. People will be less likely to wonder about their whereabouts, and they can reside at Hogwarts during the summer thus becoming entirely a part of the wizarding world. However, when you've got a child shifting back and forth between the two worlds, you're setting yourself up for the clash of the cultures. Their mother will pass the news onto granny, who will tell the other folks in the nursing home, who will tell the nurse, who probably won't believe them – but then, she just might - then she'll go tell her aunt, who also has a child at Hogwarts, and so on and so on. If we continue to accept muggle-borns it seems logically to be only a matter of time before almost all muggles know about us. And when they do, I don't think they'll take it cheerfully. Historically, the muggle reaction towards witchcraft hasn't spoken volumes for their rationality."  
  
"But aren't you concerned about inbreeding?"  
  
"It's a misconception that I want historical purebloods. You really needn't be toujours pur as the Black family is." Bellatrix smiled modestly. "I just say, stop the integration of muggles into our world now. We have more than enough wizards and witches to insure that there will be no inbreeding."  
  
"Do you believe you could do things better than they're being done? If you gained control. And how can you justify the murders?"  
  
"Better never means better for everyone. It means better for some. I have always been aware that there were small minded wizards and witches in my outer circle who would interpret my sentiments to mean that muggles were worthless excuses for potions ingredients. That is regrettable. Likewise, there are some aspects of muggle culture it would be disagreeable to lose entirely – though with the two worlds separated, I can foresee there being more difficulties in obtaining their music, or literature. It is certainly regrettable that some muggle children's potential magical powers will never be trained and thus will lie dormant within them for their lives."  
  
"Poor muggles," sighed Hermione.  
  
"Well, life is very brutal and very bleak. We bear on," replied Voldemort. "That said, yes, I think for the majority things will improve. This isn't just a blind, childlike ambition to take over the world so that I can do anything I like. I genuinely believe that I could rule with greater sense than that idiot Fudge or anyone else who currently holds a place of rank in the ministry. I think Dumbledore could do it as well, he's a great man, and I am afraid of him, I think he could best me, if it ever came to it, but he seems disinclined both to seize power and to seek me out and defeat me. He leaves that to a twelve year old each year. Thus, I am the only person in the world with a plan and the gumption to carry it out. Do you want to hear my plan?" Voldemort's cheeks blushed blue with excitement.  
  
"I'd like to hear your plan!" replied Bellatrix, "I always like hearing your plan."  
  
"I like telling it! Alright, I think we can foster a domestic policy that means we'll be able to use the skills of people who used to work with muggles to work with other wizarding creatures. Vampires, for instance. Centaurs. Merepeople. Giants. Spiders. House elves. Fairies – if they'd stop being so bloody bouncy. The possibilities of what they might teach us would be endless. I also have a special spot in my heart for the dementors."  
  
"I don't," replied Bellatrix.  
  
"I think there must be a better way to feed them. We can – I am sure of it – make them beings who will lead more fruitful lives than they're resigned to at the moment. Along those lines, I wish to eliminate Azkaban. My oft jailed followers have forced me to see it for the unforgivable and unjustifiable institution that it is. As a muggle might say, it falls under the lines of cruel and unusual punishment – though in this case it's far too usual. I want to end the distinction between mudbloods and purebloods – after cutting off muggle integration for one generation that will take care of itself. I want to improve the quality of the teachers at Hogwarts. For God's sakes, it's not as though we have a lot of public wizarding schools to staff, there's very little reason you should put up with incompetents like Binns, who I've already heard makes suggestive comments to the students. I want a renewed reverence for the old ways – I'm a traditionalist at heart and wizards sitting around in blue jeans saddens me."  
  
"What about khaki?" asked Hermione.  
  
"It would make me want to kill myself."  
  
"Oh, dear. And the murders? You feel this is worth killing people for?"  
  
"There are very few bloodless revolutions. Yes, people who fight against our aims and hinder us in our progress have been eliminated on a regular basis. Likewise, my followers have been eliminated by them. I have already noted that there are aspects to all of this that I find regrettable."  
  
"But you bear on."  
  
"Of course I do, Miss Granger."  
  
"How do you manage? What keeps you going? It can't be the mass adulation."  
  
"I should think that the answer to that would be very simple. As I have already explained to my followers, I dream of a day when yellow roses will dot every plain of the wizarding world." 


	9. Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary

The next day, as Harry, Ron and Hermione were strolling idly down the halls of Hogwarts, Harry's eye was caught by the new American transfer student, Mary Anne Tereza Andora Kamikaze Glitterina Katrina Ivanova Sue. Mary had an ivory face and emerald eyes. She knew that if she wore any clothing it would not only be entirely inappropriate for Hogwarts, but that a good five sentences would also have to be lavished upon it, so she wore nothing at all. She capered nimbly and nakedly through the halls. Mary was considerate that way. All the boys in the hallway stared at Mary Sue. They stared because she was batshit insane. The girls tried to be more discrete and avoided unnecessary interaction – though Hermione had once woken to find Mary trying to plunge a hairbrush into her scalp. Mary Sue believed in violent guerilla makeovers.

"Oh, shit," muttered Harry, "we have to hide. It's that weird girl who thinks she's my sister."

But it was too late. Mary had already begun prancing her mad prance towards the trio.

"Hit there!," she exclaimed, "aren't I pretty? How are you Harry? Or should I say baby brother? I would be saying it humorously, as you are, of course, my twin. Why are you still unattractive Hermione?"

"Please go away," said Hermione, "you are deranged."

"You're just saying that because I'm Voldemort's daughter! Don't hold me responsible for that... whatevers... of my father!"

"You're Voldemort's daughter?" screeched Ron. "Kill her, Harry! Kill her! She's an evildoer!"

"That makes no sense whatsoever," replied Hermione.

"What? You think just because he's a Dark Lord, he can't have children? That's not to say that I don't hate him. Oh boy, I hate him! I can clearly see every time he kills someone! In fact, I see all dark deeds, everywhere. Dark deeds in the morning, dark deeds in the evening, dark deeds at suppertime. When Voldemort's your father you can see dark deeds anytime. That's why I've decided to take over teaching Dark Arts class."

"But I thought you were my sister," said Harry.

"I am Harry-Fairy-Bo-Berry. We've been together since birth! I saved you from Uncle Vernon's attempts to rape you!"

"Umm, Uncle Vernon never did that. I don't think he'd ever consider that," Harry pointed out, "it would be sodomy, which would conflict with his predilection for normalcy."

"Oh, big brother," replied Mary Anne Tereza, shaking her head sadly, "you have so much to learn when it comes to the ways of the world."

"So he tried to rape Harry and Harry just didn't know about it?" Ron began eating something. Ron always ate when situations stretched his fragile mental abilities.

Hermione snickered. "This is all just too _The Myth of Repressed Memories _for words. I seem to recall _The Courage to Heal _says that even if you have no memories of abuse, if you feel like something happened then it probably did. Is it that kind of thing?"

"That's right," said Mary Sue, "see, being Voldemort's daughter doesn't make me stupid."

Hermione snorted. "Great. Today I _feel _like Marie of Romania."

"And why would being Voldemort's daughter make you stupid? I think Voldemort's more of an evil genius than just your average stupid villain," stated Harry. "I seem to recall that the first thing that I heard about him was that he was 'great.' Terrible, but great."

"You just feel that way because you need to defend me. Because I'm your sister."

"Is that to say that Voldemort is my father? Voldemort isn't my father. James Potter is my father. There's even the uncanny physical resemblance to validate that."

"What?" said Mary.

"Here. Let me work it out," offered Hermione. "Harry's father is James Potter. We are absolutely certain of this fact. Likewise, we are certain of the fact that siblings – not step-siblings, but genuine siblings, which twins have to be - are defined by having the same parents. Therefore, you can be Harry's twin sister, but not Voldemort's daughter. Or you can be Voldemort's daughter, but not Harry's twin sister. Realize, of course, that both these relationships are bizarre and unsubstantiated delusions."

"I am Voldemort's daughter!" shrieked Mary Sue. "I am, and I always will be! I'm Voldemort's daughter, I'm Voldemort's daughter, I'm Voldemort's daughter! Spawn of Voldemort, Voldemort spawn!"

Suddenly, Pansy Parkinson, the bob haired enemy of all mislead American transfer students stormed towards Mary, and, with a piercing scream announced, "You will not take the Dark Lord's name in vain!" She picked Mary up by her scrawny naked heels, and tossed her out of a window, which had been conveniently left open. Teachers and passerbys averted their eyes gently, secure in the knowledge that while the punishment had been a harsh one, it had been entirely necessary.

"Don't get any ideas about us being on the same side, now," declared Pansy, as she lit an imported cigarillo, and brought it slowly to her crimson painted lips. "It's a little known fact that Slytherins hate American transfer students even more than we hate Gryffindors. Nothing personal. And don't mention to Draco that I was of any aid in the matter."

"You smoke!" Ron exclaimed suddenly. Poor Ron had been so wrapped up in the act of eating that he had entirely missed the commotion. "That's really bad for you, you know - you shouldn't put yourself in a situation where you might die prematurely!"

"Grow up," replied Pansy, as she swept down the hall, embers flying wildly behind her.

"I have a headache," stated Harry wearily.

"Oh my God!" replied Ron, "Voldemort is coming! Oh mercy protect us, Voldemort is coming!"

"For heaven's sakes," quipped Hermione bitterly "Wil – Voldemort comes every single year. And he always comes at the same time. He's not going to change his pattern this year just to be belligerent. I should think that it's already been proved sufficiently that he's a creature of habit. So yes, he is coming, but he's not coming now."

"But Harry's scar hurts." noted Ron.

"Oh, Harry," muttered Hermione, "I'm so sick of the whole headache bit. Here," she dropped her hand into her satchel and withdrew a case of Advil, "it's extra strength. It should get rid of most migraines. I really have to study." She swept away, with only some of her hair's excess frizz flying wildly behind her.

Meanwhile, outside in the courtyard, animal rights activists began pelting Mary Sue with rocks for having a face made out of ivory. Then they gouged out the emeralds in her eye sockets so they could finance a spider monkey liberation fund. Mary Sue wandered off, blind, bereft, faceless and naked, never to return to Hogwarts. There are rumors of a faceless, eyeless girl proclaiming a sexual relationship with a certain elven archer in another land, but that is another story, for another time.

In the dungeons, Severus was busy shutting all the windows in an attempt to drown out the frenzied victory calls of the animal rights activists. Not only did they make Trevor the Tapeworm quiver nervously inside his jar. (Trevor was secretly in love Severus, so much so that he had quickly rebuffed the impassioned, blubbering proposals the giant squid had sent him. He could never bear to be liberated by activists as he was certain that if he flung himself against the side of his jar in just the right way, Severus would come to return his sentiments and they could adopt a frog and raise it together.). They also made it difficult for Severus to fully enjoy his delicious steak dinner - a dinner which he had finally sat down to devour when he heard a feeble tapping at his door. He opened it to reveal Dumbledore, who was fiddling with his emerald bracelet - not for nothing were American transfer students allowed into Hogwarts.

"Professor!" cried Severus. "What a surprise to see you here. Is anything the matter?"

"I wouldn't say that," drawled Dumbledore, "in fact, I have quite an interesting offer to make you."

"Yes?"

"I want you to take on a potion's assistant. Now, I think it's someone you may feel adverse to at first, but once you get to know her I think you'll come to appreciate her abilities and her intellect. She'll be a boon to you. She even has some interest in pursuing potions professionally."

"Miss Granger? Well, I can see why you think I might be adverse, but you'll find me open to the prospect. I've come to truly appreciate her intellectual ability in the past month or so."

"My dear boy, do you take me for an idiot? I'm fully aware of your, shall we say, extracurricular activities with Miss Granger. Sweeping the girl around town, really Severus, what would her parents think? I don't doubt the girl can... polish a test tube like a professional... but I'm not employing my staff to hump schoolgirls like gorillas."

Severus's jaw dropped. "I can't even dignify that with a response. My friendship with Miss Granger is entirely appropriate on a student teacher basis. I'm shocked that you could suggest something of the sort."

"Oh, Severus, mum's the word, eh?" twinkled Dumbledore cheerfully.

"If not Miss Granger then who?"

"Susan Bones."

"Absolutely not."

"Absolutely yes. And you will take her on."

"I will not. She has the intellectual ability of a stewed cabbage."

"I don't agree."

"Well, we seem to have very different perceptions of what constitutes intellectual ability, then."

"I don't think you understand. She's my...goddaughter."

"She's already told me that. I don't feel it makes much of a difference."

"You have to. I already promised the position to her."

"Then un-promise it to her. She's a child Albus, treat her like one."

"I don't think you understand. She's very mature for her age."

"And what is her age?"

"Seventeen."

"Ah-hah."

"She surprises me, really. Inside that little Hufflepuff body is the cunning of a Borgia."

"Tenacious, too?"

"You can't imagine. She's harder to budge than an oak tree. And when she wants something, she just sinks her little teeth in until she gets it. Stubborn, really."

"And jealous, too? I imagine she'd be furious if you gave the position to anyone else."

"Secure in her own abilities, I should say. But it's true, if you cross her she'll give you hell on a platter."

"But I bet she's vulnerable all the same. She's so young; doesn't she have moments where she has little flickers of insecurity?"

"She's sweet. So unmarred by life. How wasted youth really is on the young, wouldn't you agree?"

"A mature woman of the world in some ways, but at other moments a timid and delicate child?"

"You know her!"

"Just well enough to know that she's not your god-daughter. She isn't is she? Let's not add some sort of emotional incest to the whole proposition. You ought to be ashamed; you're old enough to be her grandfather. Her great grandfather, even!"

"Really Severus, I thought you of all people would understand. Don't tell me you've never been tempted. All those ample young women running around with those cute little house ties waggling back and forth. God knows you ravish enough muggles at Dark Revels."

"I've been tempted, and I've restrained myself. Albus, how could you? What about Minerva? Dear, sweet Minerva?"

"Dear sweet Minerva has a lover of her own. We're very open about it."

"Dear, sweet Minerva?"

"Dear, sweet Minerva."

"Who? Not more pedophilia."

"Argus Filch."

"Seriously?"

"I'm afraid so. Love is blind. She visits him in her animagus form occasionally. People just assume it's Mrs. Norris."

"That's the most revolting thing I've ever heard. I find both counts revolting, really. At your ages sex should mean nothing but gender."

"I can't believe you could be so puritanical. And so archaic! Susan and I have a love that extends past all boundaries. There's such a pleasure to being loved for your soul, not for your body. She dotes on me. And I on her. She's just happy to sit there at my feet like a lapdog, staring at my chin for hours."

"How bizarre. And rather unnerving."

"The point is she's really simple."

"Well, that much seems clear."

"Oh, what would you know about it? Do you at least see that you must give her the position?"

"I was under the impression that you were already giving her 'the position.'"

"That's just an awful joke, Severus. You will make her your assistant though, won't you?"

"I don't see that your being in love with her has anything to do with it."

"Pardon?"

"Why should I? You have a love that extends beyond all boundaries. She won't even care, that's how deep your love is." "But I want to make her happy. And besides, if she didn't get it..."

"She might leave you?"

"She's feisty that way."

"Really Albus, she's not feisty, she's a whore."

"Pardon me?"

"And she's not even a particularly honest whore."

"Let me make myself very clear. You will take her on as your assistant, or I'll fire you. That's the whole story."

"Then you give me no choice. But just tell me one thing?"

"Perhaps."

"Is she the first one? Or has this sort of thing just been going forever for you? I mean, all the attractive prefects over the years, were you shtupping all of them?"

"For heaven's sakes. Why would I be so quick to accept student teacher relationships if I weren't open to them morally? And as I'm open to them, why wouldn't I indulge myself as well. It's perfectly logical."

"So you've..."

"Done this sort of thing before? Well, why not? Though, of course, none who I cared for as much as Miss Bones."

"You may care for her, but I seriously doubt that she returns your affections in kind. She's seventeen, after all, and you're over a century old. I suppose it is comforting to know that she's not just with you because of your good looks, but..."

"She does love me."

"How can you tell?"

"Oh, you should read her love letters."

"She writes you love letters? How sweet."

"They're charming. No one could write letters like that unless they were in love. They're filled with such poetry. I think she may have a certain talent for writing too, but then, my perception could be colored by my fondness for her." Dumbledore popped a lemon drop in his mouth and sucked on it perversely.

"Perhaps if I saw the letters, I could believe it."

"That could be arranged. I'll drop them off for you."

"Perfect."

"So it's agreed then?"

"I suppose so."

"Marvelous. She'll be so pleased."

Dumbledore turned and left the chambers, still gnawing on his lemon drop.

As Trevor the Tapeworm watched Severus dance the Polka around his chambers, exclaiming at sporadic intervals, "I'm going to be headmaster!" he realized that he had never felt more tempted to shower him with roses and praise.


	10. Those Lusty Letters

"Well," declared Voldemort, "I find this absolutely appalling, don't you?"

Severus glanced up from the pile of Miss Bone's pink, poorly perfumed correspondence and replied, "Of course I do. The man is old enough to be..."

Voldemort, seemingly oblivious to Severus's objection, placed his half moon spectacles (red rimmed to match his pupils) down on the table, shook his skull sadly and replied, "I mean, really, Severus. Who writes like this?"

"You mean the moral implications don't..."

"Just listen to this:

_Dear Albus,_

_I think you're hot_

_It's with you I'd like to trot_

_A lot_

_In a spot._

_Susan _

"Is that supposed to be provocative? Are you not teaching these children anything? In my day we didn't even consider that a poem, we considered it a dirty limerick. A bad dirty limerick. Or maybe a horrible code. I used to work with those when the Death Eaters were coming together – for instance I could scrawl a message to someone that said something like, 'kill 10 of your mudblood neighbors, quick!' and they would know to meet at the compost heap at 10:00. It didn't work out, though. People got confused a lot."

"I imagine that would be an issue."

The couple was interrupted when a red stiletto dropped from the ceiling vent onto the table, its heel piercing a portion the Susan/Albus correspondence with the force of a rapier. A frantic shuffling ensued, after which a voice was heard calling, "Could someone _please _be good enough to get me down from here?"

Voldemort scrambled out of his chair, his chartreuse robes swirling behind him, and proceeded to nimbly pluck a blood splattered Bellatrix out of the ventilation duct.

"You look a little... messy," noted Severus.

"Well, I don't wonder. Isn't there a better way to infiltrate Hogwarts than the ventilation system?" sighed Bellatrix.

"I was referring to the liberal streaks of blood."

"Oh," yawned Bellatrix, "do you remember that problem we had with the young man from Yorkshire? Who knew about the Dark Lord's..."

"I hate it when you talk about me as though I weren't right here in the room with you," interjected Voldemort.

"Who knew about your secret identity." finished Bellatrix.

"Yes," replied Severus.

"We don't have that problem anymore. Milk and cookies all around."

"Do you think," Voldemort stated with some hesitation, "that when we win, you'll be able to give up the killing?"

"When we win?" asked Severus.

"Of course I will," stated Bellatrix. "It's only my work after all. It's not as though it's my vocation."

"Do you have a vocation?" queried Voldemort.

"I imagine that when we reach a point where I don't have to work so much I'll find out. Speaking of which, what was the scandal?"

"It's more of an atrocity," murmured Voldemort.

"Albus Dumbledore is having a liaison with Susan Bones. She's a Hufflepuff student he expects me to take on as an apprentice. When I said that I didn't think she truly loved him, he helpfully provided me with their full correspondence – the style and manner of which is what I suspect the Dark Lord is referring to as the atrocity. Albus' are written on blue stationary, Susan's in pink – they're propped up on the back counter by the ship replica."

Bellatrix walked over and picked up a handful, but not before glancing at Severus's diminutive replication of the QEII. "That's an awfully tiny ship," she remarked.

"I prefer it that way."

"Mmm," said Bellatrix, "so how bad are these letters? I mean, I'm sure there incriminating, but are they just wretchedly written to such an extent that they offer perverse enjoyment?"

"You really must read them Bella. I think Susan does well to consider a career in potions; she's not going to be publishing anything anytime soon. And I suppose Dumbledore's interests may be broad – or broads in Susan's case-"

Severus cringed, Bellatrix looked politely amused.

"- but literature isn't one of them. Apparently."

For a few blissful, ironically detached minutes, each of them sat together and read. Then Bellatrix began to snort.

"What is it?" asked Voldemort.

"He tells her she has dove's eyes. Has the man ever seen dove's eyes? They look like black and red snot."

Bellatrix suddenly stared into Voldemort's dove-like eyes and her hand fluttered to her mouth.

"I mean," she said, "not that red and black are bad colors for eyes. I love it. Personally, I really wish more people had dove's eyes. Don't you, Sevvie?"

"You can't really respect a man unless he has dove's eyes."

"I'm just bringing it up because I could never be with a man who mixes his metaphors."

Voldemort sighed a sigh of relief. He never mixed his metaphors. It was simply one of those things that Dark Lords didn't do.

"Well listen to this one," Voldemort stated, "_You and me baby ain't nothin' but mammals, so let's do it like they do on the Discovery channel._"

"Pardon me?" replied Severus.

"It's a song. A muggle song," explained Voldemort, "a horrible, ill conceived muggle song. I sincerely doubt that Professor Dumbledore knows what the Discovery Channel is, so it probably won't make much sense to him."

"You know," noted Severus, "quoting any song in a love note strikes me as a sign of a pronounced lack of originality. But quoting bad songs just makes me think she's a blooming idiot."

"Why can't they quote Gershwin? I would be receptive to that," declared Bellatrix, glancing fleetingly over at Voldemort.

"Why don't they quote sheet music?" suggested Severus, "wouldn't that be wonderful? It would imply that they're both intelligent enough to read sheet music."

"I think half the pleasure of destroying Dumbledore's career will be exposing both his and his teenaged lover's painful letters. Then people won't just say, 'There's Albus Dumbledore, he sleeps with schoolgirls,' people will say, 'There's Albus Dumbledore he sleeps with schoolgirls who write the way monkeys would if monkeys had opposable thumbs.'" Voldemort cackled maniacally.

"I don't think monkeys can sign their 'I's with those deformed little hearts," mentioned Bellatrix.

"I think monkeys would be sensible enough not to want to," replied Severus, 'monkeys are perfectly brilliant that way."

"So we can finally completely eradicate the Albus Dumbledore problem!" squealed Voldemort. "This is wonderful, because everyone already knows that his brother sleep with goats. So there's basically an air of sexual shame already hovering over the family. You know, it's moments like these that I just love the early Christians who taught us to be ashamed of physical desire. If not for them it would be _so _much harder to disgrace people in positions of power."

"And when we couple it with the Binns issue, it just leaves this whole opening for us to use Malfoy's position on the Board of Governors to gain control of the school. With Severus acting as Headmaster we can indoctrinate young children everywhere to our logic, thus setting the scene for the revolution and a political majority in the Wizarding World!"

"Well, I think there might be just the tiniest problem with that," said Severus, "you see, it's apparently common knowledge that Hermione and I are sleeping together."

Bellatrix's head swiveled towards Severus, and she remarked, with a look of profound shock and disbelief, "You're sleeping with Hermione? Since when?"

"I'm not," said Severus, "the point is that – according to Dumbledore - everyone seems to believe that I am. Which is unfortunate, as I think that if the rumor gets out, even if we use all the political pull we can it's highly unlikely that I would be appointed Headmaster."

"Hermione would deny it," stated Voldemort.

"I imagine Susan Bones would as well. By the time this is all finished, any parent will believe any rumor of perversity pertaining to Hogwarts. After all, when Binns is doing it, and the Headmaster is doing it, why wouldn't I indulge? It's all right. You can always get someone else."

"Who?" replied Bellatrix. "Pettigrew makes my skin crawl and Lucius is insane. As for Crabbe and Goyle – some people drink from the fountain of knowledge, they only gargle. And you sent my husband off on that trip to collect kappas."

"What about you, Bella?" asked Severus.

"If you ever abbreviate my name again I'll hex your privates off."

Voldemort looked exceedingly pleased.

"But the Dark Lord..." mentioned Severus.

"That's different."

"Though Severus does raise a good point. You could take over," suggested Voldemort.

"I abhor children."

"So does Severus, and that's never stopped him from gaining authority at Hogwarts."

"I really thought the whole beauty of promoting Severus was that it would be someone from the inside. He's someone whom it would make sense to promote to the position of Headmaster."

"Sense is overrated in these matters," declared the Dark Lord.

"It's a pity, too, because I really would have enjoyed being Headmaster. But if you heard that a girl – a not unattractive girl - was meeting her still relatively young professor at night, privately on a regular basis what would you think?"

"Lucky dog?" provided Bellatrix.

"What an exciting way for a girl to lose her virginity?" supplied Voldemort.

"Fine. But what would you say if people asked you your opinion on the matter?"

"Scandalous. The man should be fired," said Bellatrix with decided, matronly conviction.

"Statutory rape," enunciated Voldemort. "Or if it's not, it should be."

"You see?" sighed Snape.

A sudden thumping on the door ensued.

"Oh dear," stated Bellatrix, "I do hope it's not another baby."

"But wasn't the last one just a bit cute?" muttered Voldemort.

"Maybe a little. Just a little," replied Bellatrix, silently worrying that Voldemort would try to impregnate her with his satanic heir while she slept.

It was Severus who finally rose to open the door, and, after staring through the peephole, admitted a smiling Hermione clutching a copy of _The Age of Innocence. _

"Hell!" said Severus, "Were we supposed to meet tonight?"

Hermione looked disappointed. "If it's a bad time, I can come back."

"No, no, I just have company."

Voldemort waved his paw cheerily.

"Oh!" cried Hermione, "Willard! How nice to see you. You too, Bellatrix."

"Do come in," Voldemort replied with an inviting wave, "we're all relieved you're not an illegitimate baby."

Everyone chuckled, though Bellatrix's face showed palpable relief that Hermione was indeed, not a time traveling illegitimate baby.

"So how are you?" asked Severus.

"I'm fine," stated Hermione, but then she furrowed her brow and continued, "Actually, I'm a little worried about Harry."

"Why?" queried Severus.

"Well, he just loved the Advil. Apparently it's gotten rid of all his dark forces induced headaches, and he's able to lead a normal life."

"That sounds like a good thing," mentioned Severus, "not to me, obviously, I hate the little brat, but as you keep company with him I imagined you'd be pleased."

"I was. But he liked it so much that he started trying the extra strength things."

"Many people do. They're readily available in most pharmacies."

"And then it seemed a though even those weren't enough, and he's been asking whether or not he could have some of my Vicodin. He offered to pay me for it."

"Vicodin?" asked Bellatrix. "I'm hopelessly behind on muggle innovations."

"Come the revolution you'll never feel hopelessly behind again!" exclaimed Voldemort.

"That'll be so nice," replied Bellatrix dreamily.

"It's a highly potent painkiller," explained Hermione, "I had a bit left over from when I got my wisdom teeth removed. I just kept it around in case I ever fell down the stairs and broke every bone in my body and for some reason there was no magical aid."

"Why wouldn't you just cast a healing charm after having your teeth removed?" wondered Severus.

"Professor Snape, you know perfectly well we're not allowed to do magic off of school grounds. I'm shocked that you would even suggest such a thing."

Severus looked suitably mollified.

"So in any case," Hermione went on, "it's highly addictive, and not the kind of thing you pop like Bertie Bott's Beans. I don't think Harry fully understands the risks of painkillers. People do get addicted to them, you know. Can you imagine growing up in an environment where no one ever gives you Advil when you have a headache?"

"Yes," replied Severus and Bellatrix. Hermione shifted her gaze to Voldemort.

"No," replied Voldemort, "in the orphanage, no one ever gave me painkillers either. I learned about them all by myself."

"That's so sad," murmured Hermione.

"My mother cast healing spells on me," pointed out Bellatrix, "it wasn't that terrible."

"I suppose not," Hermione said.

"Nobody ever cast healing spells on me," mentioned Severus.

Hermione gave him a pitying glance, and then, in an attempt to change the topic to something cheerier asked what they were working on. The response was not what she had hoped for. Voldemort let out a long and weary sigh, before declaring, "Albus Dumbledore sleeps with Susan Bones."

"That sounds like something you'd see scratched on a bathroom wall," remarked Hermione.

"In this case, fortunately or unfortunately, it happens to be true. We have a written correspondence validating it."

"How extraordinary," whispered Hermione, "I always _suspected _he might have a thing going on with her. But then I figured I was just projecting my schoolgirl fantasies onto another couple."

"No, no, you were quite right," noted Voldemort, "most perceptive of you, too. Most of us didn't see that one coming."

"So what's the matter then? I thought you'd be happy."

"We'd like to weed out the teachers who are sleeping with students at Hogwarts, but it seems we can't," declared Bellatrix wearily.

"Why not?"

"Because then we'd have to get rid of Severus, too. Apparently, it's become rumored that you two are having an affair."

"That's preposterous!"

"Yes, but public opinion inclines itself towards that sort of tid-bit."

"Well," said Hermione with a sly smile, "if that's all it is, you needn't worry. I have a reporter in my pocket. Not quite literally, but almost..."


	11. Passions and Purebloods

Voldemort hesitated on the threshold of the Noble Pureblood Bistro. He liked to ruffle his hood a little, and give his robes a menacing swirl to get in the spirit before entering. Hermione did not. It might have been because Hermione was not a Pureblood, and therefore didn't know the elitist magnitude of entering that particular café; or it might have been because she was marveling over the stupidity of the name. Purebloods might be able to trace their lineage back to the shores of the Yangtze – or alternatively Tripoli – but long on originality they were not. Very few of them cared about this particular default in character, so long as their comrades were able to appreciate a well cut and crisply pressed robe - which they invariably were.

The bistro itself was adorable. It was the kind of place Hermione might have taken her ailing grandmother for Sunday tea. Well loved velvet poodle prints hung about the walls - the owner tried to justify their presence with some rambling tale about their being traced back to Salazar Slytherin, but everyone knew that he just liked to run his cheek along a good velvet poodle print. The Muggles were kept in a giant transparent lobster tank in the corner. Hermione's ailing grandmother probably wouldn't have approved of that particular décor element.

No sooner had the two entered than a Muggle man with an abundance of tattoos was plucked from the tank by the maitre-de, who wore high buttoned robes and a little lace fichu.

"Dance, Muggle, dance! Dance your feisty dance!" the wizard demanded.

"But you said I could be free!"

"Tomorrow you can be free," declared the Maitre-de, "tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life."

"What about tonight?"

"Tonight you dance. For our amusement."

"Man," thought the Muggle, as he broke into a fiery Russian jig "tomorrow is going to rock."

Sometimes Purebloods liked to watch Muggles do funny things. It wasn't anything personal, it just tickled them.

Rita Skeeter, for instance, seated somewhat apart from the rest of the crowd, seemed to find the spectacle both perverse and amusing. Her face had contorted itself into an amused grimace, which quickly turned into a full blown grimace when she caught sight of Hermione. Voldemort lingered slightly behind, clapping his hands in time to the Russian jig music.

"So." stated Rita, as Hermione descended into the chair across from the journalist.

"So," said Hermione.

"So, hello there!" exclaimed Voldemort, trotting over from the jig, "What a pleasure to meet you!"

Rita's face regressed into a further expression of shock and disgust, but after a moment journalistic vigor seemed to take hold, and she breathed, as Woodward must have breathed when first contacted by Deep Throat, "Voldemort."

"No, no, that mistake gets made all the time," replied Voldemort affably, "I am Willard – the stoically disfigured but abnormally genial Hogwarts caretaker."

It was at that point that a waiter shuffled over to their table and caught sight of Voldemort. In his hurry to fling himself prostrate at the Dark Lord's feet, rolls were strewn everywhere.

"My Lord," murmured the man, "you cannot imagine the honor you do me." Unfortunately, as he was prostrate, he murmured all this to the carpet, so that it sounded like something more along the lines of, "I'm bored, boo cannot be bagged the horror to do be." It's a little known fact that overlords would actually love to receive valuable input from underlings; it's just so hard to comprehend any of it when said underlings have their face submerged in shag carpeting.

"Ix-nay Oldermort-vay. Illard-way," replied Voldemort sagely.

"I see My Lord," whispered the waiter, "you are traveling incognito."

"No," replied Voldemort, "I am not Voldemort. I don't even know who Voldemort is. Or whoever this Lord is you're referring to. I am but Willard, a mild mannered caretaker tragically disfigured while trying to save a baby crup. Now, go away or I'll crucio you into next Tuesday."

Dark Lords are appalling liars. Nonetheless, the waiter did depart, kow-towing and crunching a vast assortment of rolls under his heel as he went.

"So," said Rita, leaning in Voldemort's direction very purposefully, and propping her chin upon her hands, "why don't you tell me all about how you saved that crup."

"Well, there was this crup..."

"Yes."

"And it was in danger! Horrible danger! So I rushed to its defense with bells on my toes."

"Danger from what, precisely?"

Voldemort turned desperately towards Hermione.

"I believe you told me he was in grave danger from a prowling pack of bowtruckles."

"Of course. They attacked me in the head, you know. So I sometimes forget things like that."

"That's dreadful," said Rita, "How did you fend them off?"

"With my hands! With nothing but my hands, clawing at their fiendish bodies, clawing like a madman! They came at me, one by one, but I held firm. Then one got me in the face. I collapsed after that, and awoke to find myself in St.Mungo's being treated for serious injuries."

"So you don't actually know that you saved the crup?"

"What?" Voldemort was perplexed.

"You passed out before you actually saw whether or not the crup was saved. It could just as well be dead."

"Don't upset him this way, you'll only confuse him," whispered Hermione.

"If I'm only going to confuse him," Rita hissed back, "then why did you bring him?"

"He has essential information regarding an article I need done. If you'd ever give me a chance to talk about it."

"I will, I will, but right now I want to hear more about the crup."

"I did save that crup, I _DID_," insisted Voldemort firmly.

"Of course you did," soothed Rita. "Nobody would ever contest that. I just think it would have been so much easier had you just used a few elementary charms instead of going to all the trouble of clawing at it."

Voldemort looked sad. Not perplexed, not annoyed, just quietly depressed, and maybe a little sulky.

"I suppose it's really more plants I tend to," he sighed.

"You don't say!" squealed Rita, "I always specialized in herbology, I even worked in the field for a few years before getting into journalism."

"That's nice. Could we get to the article now?" suggested Hermione briskly.

"I still keep it up as a hobby, of course," continued Rita, leaning closer to Voldemort, "but lately I've been having the most terrible difficulties with my asphodel. Tell me, what do you use to help it grow?"

"Water?" supplied Voldemort lamely.

"Really," replied Rita, "how perfectly extraordinary."

"Just a natural green if somewhat disfigured thumb," replied Voldemort, chipper as ever.

In close proximity to the table a series of waiters had begun to congregate in subservient, worshipful positions of their own choosing.

"I think," declared Rita, jotting a few notes into her journal, "we might be able to talk about Miss Granger's article now."

"Of course," stated Hermione quickly, "it's really quite scandalous."

"Mmm-hmm," Rita replied, casting pointed glances at Voldemort and continuing to scribble in her notebook.

"Albus Dumbledore is having an affair with a sixth year student," declared Hermione.

Rita's head shot up from her parchment. She adjusted her spectacles. "Now," she said, "that really is interesting. Do you have proof?"

"Loads," promised Voldemort, dropping his heap of letters on the table.

Rita picked one up, recoiled at the still pungent perfume soaking it, and read aloud, with a tone of detached irony:

"_Albus,_

_I remember the day we saw the happy phoenix._

_Happy!_

_So happy!_

_I saw the phoenix again today_

_But today there was no happiness_

_Only death. _

_Not like the happy day._

_Love and kisses,_

_Susan_."

"My God," murmured Rita, "it's the worst poem ever."

"You haven't read his yet," chuckled Voldemort maniacally.

"But now I must," replied Rita, eagerly grabbing for another letter. "Ah, here we are," she stated, and read:

"_Susan,_

_I love you like I'd love a sea monkey_

_If sea monkeys didn't die so quickly_

_I should hate to see you_

_Flinging your wormy body against the glass_

_But I would feed you a food pellet_

_Any time you wanted. _

_Albus."_

"I stand corrected," stated Rita, "that's the worst poem ever written."

"If a man wrote that to me," mentioned Hermione, "I would lie awake at night worrying that he was going to transform me into a sea monkey."

"Then there would be no happiness. Only sea monkey-ness," replied Voldemort.

"Not like the happy day!" cackled Rita.

"When I take over the world poetry like this shall be verboten! I shall rule like angry god of intelligent metaphor," declared Voldemort in a fit of passion.

"When you take over the world?" queried Rita, jotting frantically in her journal.

"I mean..." Voldemort hesitated, "when I take over... Hogwarts."

"You're aspiring to take over Hogwarts?" Rita looked riveted.

"No. I didn't say that."

"Yes, you did."

"No, he didn't," replied Hermione. Then she leaned purposefully over to Rita and muttered, "the bowtruckles damaged his brain. Please, stop tormenting him."

"So then," said Rita, "I take it you're just bringing me this information out of the goodness of your hearts, because you sit around devising ways to advance my journalistic career?"

"Not quite," said Hermione.

"I didn't think so. What do you want in exchange?"

"Well, given Dumbledore's tastes," stated Voldemort, "he's been condoning some indiscretions pertaining to other teachers. Binns, for instance. Binns verbally assaults young women and gets away with it."

"So you want me to bring down Binns? That's all? Well, that's fine. I don't really give a damn about Binns."

"No, that's not all," stated Hermione. "There seems to be this really funny rumor about that I'm having an affair with Professor Snape. I'd like you to insure that he's set up to be a man of impeccable conduct. You could even infer that he was the one who was so appalled by the proceedings that he brought it to the public's attention."

"And is he a man of... impeccable conduct?" sneered Rita slightly.

"If you mean am I sleeping with him, I'm not."

"Well, you might as well be. I can set him up to be a man of impeccable conduct, after all. So society isn't going to think there's anything untoward going on. There's no administration to stop you. Dumbledore obviously wouldn't contest it. You have totally free rein to indulge all your schoolgirl fantasies with no repercussions at all. My word, aren't you the luckiest little devil that God ever made?"

"I certainly do not have schoolgirl fantasies – especially fantasies pertaining to Professor Snape. Nor do I think I'm likely to any time in the near future. Now, I'm leaving the copies of the correspondence between Professor Dumbledore and Susan in your care, I trust you'll make good use of them. But if you don't heed my wishes on Professor Snape, I think you'll have a very hard time finding a part of the administration that won't dismiss the Dumbledore/Susan fiasco – and in relation to that the Binns scandal – as patent fraud. This, unfortunately for you, would bring a very quick end to what could promise to be the story of the year, not to mention your career. However, if you insure that Professor Snape is unimpeachable, I'll be willing to offer an interview on what it was like to be sexually harassed by Professor Binns. I will weep. It will be tragic. Likewise, Professor Snape will voice his disgust at how Albus tried to give his young mistress a position as Professor Snape's potion's assistant."

Rita nodded.

"We're agreed then?" Hermione asked.

Rita nodded once more.

"I'm glad to hear it. Good day, Ms. Skeeter." Voldemort and Hermione strode away from the table, leaving Rita to pay for the drinks. However, Rita seemed to be experiencing a frantic giggling fit as she leafed through the Albus/Bones letters, and couldn't have minded too terribly much.

"Tell me," said Voldemort, as the two strode out the door, "do you really not have schoolgirl fantasies?"

"Not any I was going to admit to with her recording the whole conversation."

Voldemort looked surprised. "I hadn't thought of that," he mentioned. "So you do have fantasies?"

"You could say that. Does it shock you?"

"Should it?"

"It's not the sort of thing one goes about admitting to people, Willard."

"Don't worry, I think it's quite normal for there to be a certain sexual tension in any close friendship between a heterosexual man and woman. It always seems to be quite absurd for society to assume that laws or moral restrictions can make us regard everyone except immediately acceptable prospective spouses as gender neutral. But then, I have no morals."

"Yes, you do," chided Hermione affectionately.

"Not in the traditional sense. Though I do think she's right about the fact that you could have a liaison with Severus."

Hermione blushed.

"So you've thought about it."

"Only sometimes. I mean sometimes, when we're laughing about some silly piece of literature, or last week he was reading something – Bulgakov, I think – aloud, and I just felt really... you know."

"Overcome with a violent, lustful passion?"

"Emotionally attached."

"I know for a fact that Severus is very lonely."

"Everybody's lonely. It's the human condition."

"I also know that he'd really like to be in a relationship with you. A relationship that's more than just friendship." Voldemort knew no such thing, but the kow-towing waiters had infused him with a desire to spread love with a verve that would put Cupid to shame.

"I don't know," replied Hermione. "It would be fine and dandy now, but twenty years down the road don't you think I'd look back on it and be vaguely disturbed that there was a man twice my age – old enough to be my father – lusting after me? I mean, if I had a daughter, and she was sleeping with one of her teachers, I would be completely disgusted."

"But you two are an exemplary case."

"I'm pretty sure very couple who does something like that says that they're the exemplary case."

"But?"

"But you're right. I do want him. As more than just a friend. We'll see how it goes."

"I think you'd have to make the first move. He would never consider it – I think in his mind it would put him on par with Binns. Or Dumbledore, I suppose."

"We'll see."

"Is that a..."

"That's a "we'll see." Maybe. I might. I think he'd dismiss me, but I suppose it would get the urge out of the way."

"Well. I think it would be grand. I think it would be perfectly grand." Voldemort and Hermione trotted off happily into the sunset, a day of successful scheming behind them.

But it couldn't come as a great surprise to anyone when the next morning the Wizarding News Headlines read: VOLDEMORT – A.K.A. 'WILLARD' - SAVES BABY CRUP: FRIENDLY CRUPS NOW ON SIDE OF DARKNESS? Voldemort was depressed about this, until he realized that it meant that he could choose an entirely new name for his alter ego. He would be inconspicuous about it, of course. He was thinking of going by El Elegance Elegante.


	12. Ho Mione

Hermione fell over. She picked herself up – using the bed for some much needed support – and then proceeded to fall over again. She wasn't drunk. She wasn't having a particularly clumsy day. She was wearing high heels. Hermione had worn heels before – demure silver sling backs for the Yule ball that she'd thought quite fashionable at the time – but she'd never worn seven inch neon pink stilettos before. Lest you thought she was horribly behind in terms of Hogwarts fashion, it was worth pointing out that almost no one wore seven inch stilettos that radiated grotesque pinkness. Hermione had only found them after spending a significant time rummaging through the remains of Mary Anne Tereza Andora Kamikaze Glitterina Katrina Ivanova Sue's belongings.

And she hadn't stopped her search with the neon high heels. No one's attention was ever caught by neon pink stilettos alone. She'd paired them with a leather corset and purple fishnets and a strange, frilly bottom covering with gobs of peacock feathers sticking out of it. To her credit, it could have been worse. Mary's belongings also included a nun habit, a Minnie Mouse costume and a straightjacket (though whether its use was sexual, or just a reminder of a not so distant past was anyone's guess.) Despite her not-as-atrocious-as-it-could-have-been taste Hermione still looked like something out of "Playwizard," that is the costume designer at "Playwizard" were blind, and the reader in the midst of a hallucinogenic breakdown. It was a dreadful sight. She looked like a prostitute – and not a high class courtesan, not the kind of prostitute Lucius Malfoy might have over for Putanesca, but the kind of woman whose firewhisky addiction had driven her to sell her body in Knockturn Alley.

But Hermione knew that in a woman's life there were certain events for which she must look like a drunken prostitute. Seducing your potions master was one of them.

She had the scene all plotted out in her mind. She would slink into the room, and lean casually in the doorway. "Hello... Professor," she'd purr lustily. Then she would drop something – she hadn't figured out just what yet, but surely it would come to her - and lean over to pick it up, allowing the Professor a delicious view of her sumptuous, heaving bosom. If he was playing hard to get, she'd murmur something along the lines of "I'm a woman Professor, a woman," thus clearly establishing her gender, which would lead to sex. Maybe he'd even call her a silly girl, which would be unspeakably arousing! He would be all but forced to ravish her because men are completely unable to moderate lustful desires (in less passionate moments, Hermione would have realized that she was employing the same logic used by date rapists, but at the time it seemed irrelevant.) When that happened, she had a fairly good idea what she'd do, though she did wish she could bring her copy of the Karma Sutra along and consult it for reference notes. Romance novels had told her that actions like these led to undying love, and she had no cause not to believe them.

Ginny – who was in the process of rushing to Hermione's dorm bearing a tube of blue, glittery lipstick, and red acrylic nails - thought Hermione looked wonderful. Ginny had always been hideously shy about her myopia, and never admitted to anyone, even her closest friends, that she was almost blind without her reading glasses. She never wore them in public, as she was well versed enough in the poetry of Dorothy Parker to know that, "men never make passes at girls who wear glasses." So she wasn't quite being cruel, and her tastes didn't run towards slatterns, it was simply that to her, Hermione was a glorious ball of interlocking colors. Blurry, fuzzy colors. To anyone else, she looked like a Jabberwocky. Beauty might well be in the eye of the beholder, but it was best to make sure that your beholder had a fully functioning set of eyeballs before trusting their opinion.

When Ginny swept in, brandishing her accessories before her like a virgin sacrifice to a god of premarital and highly illegal sex, Hermione had fallen once again, and was bent halfway over a chair. It might have been sexy had it not so closely resembled a seizure. Her peacock feathers had also begun to molt, and were spreading across the room.

"You look fabulous!" squealed Ginny.

"I keep falling down," noted Hermione. "'I don't think it's very attractive to fall down this much."

"You obviously know nothing about the male psyche," replied Ginny.

"Oh?" replied Hermione, sitting down on the floor amidst the mounting pile of feathers.

"Falling down. Like a fallen woman! Professor Snape will have his wild, lordly pleasures with you, and you'll never be able to marry and will have to work as a governess, because no respectable man will have you!"

"I suppose that makes sense," noted Hermione, "except that Professor Snape isn't taking advantage of me. Aren't I more of a jumping woman?"

"Don't split hairs. You're falling – falling into a passionate embrace!"

"I still find this whole situation totally and utterly bizarre," declared Hermione. "Don't you think that playing ludicrous games like this goes against any aspects of my character which would cause him to respect me?"

"No," replied Ginny flatly.

"Oh. All right, then. But shouldn't he love me for myself?"

"Isn't there a Yeats poem along those lines?" pondered Ginny, "Doesn't it go 'only God, my dear, could love you for yourself alone and not your neon pink high heels?'"

"Something like that," nodded Hermione.

"So I don't see what you're making such a fuss over."

"I suppose I just thought it would be different. Fewer pretenses. More just an honest admission of our feelings, and some comprehensive talk about what to do about them."

Ginny scoffed, "Have you _ever _read a romance novel that operated along those lines?"

Hermione had to admit that she hadn't. Not any romance novel with a happy ending, anyway.

"Being calm and honest is no way to begin a relationship," continued Ginny, "now, it would be different if you were being honest because you experienced a moment of passion. For instance, if he called you a silly girl, and then you began to scream uncontrollably, and finally stormed from the room shrieking 'I don't know why I engage in sexual fantasy about you on a daily basis!' He would have to come running after you, and then ravish you on the dungeon floor."

"Why? After I shrieked at him like a crazy person?"

"The matters of love are complicated," sighed Ginny. Hermione attempted to stand up, skidded across the feathers, and then proceeded to fall back to the floor.

"I think this is absolutely hopeless," Hermione remarked.

"Maybe he'll be drunk!" squealed Ginny hopefully. "Maybe he'll have absolutely nothing to do but drink himself into an alcoholic stupor because he's pining for you! Wouldn't that be great? Then his defenses would be down, and you could have your way with him!"

"Isn't that rape?" enquired Hermione.

"Not really. It's still frowned upon, but then, you are planning to sleep with your middle aged Professor, so I imagine the whole matter would be frowned upon."

"Oh," replied Hermione, nibbling on her thumbnail.

"Not that there's anything actually wrong with it," amended Ginny quickly.

"Of course not."

"In any case, there are lots of things that could happen. I mean, he could just leap on top of you when you were just standing in the doorway."

"But he's never shown even the slightest indication of doing anything like that in the past."

"For heaven's sakes," replied Ginny, "just trust me on this. In the past, you were never dressed as beautifully as you are now. Did I, or did I not get Harry and Draco to engage in a passionate love affair?"

"Umm," replied Hermione "Harry and Draco are both heterosexual."

"But with my nudging..."

"They were totally repulsed and horrified. I overheard Pansy saying that Draco thought your brain should be washed out with soap."

"Look, it's not my fault that they're both so touchy about their homosexual identities."

"I think after you trapped them in the closet stocked with chocolate body paint, and opened it three hours later to find them sitting as far apart from each other as possible doing their homework it would be fair to assume that they're definitely heterosexual. Or, at the very least, not attracted to each other."

"That's all that YOU think happened in that closet," replied Ginny, "I'm worldly enough to know that after a vigorous round of chocolate body painted sex, many people like to do their homework. It's like smoking a cigarette."

"I really don't think they're homosexuals."

"They're gay as a lamb in spring. They're just not admitting it yet. But they will, oh, they will."

Hermione nodded and smiled, and began to worry that taking Ginny's advice was the silliest thing she had ever done in her seventeen years.

"Don't be so nervous," chided Ginny, "I have something that will make you feel so much better."

Hermione hoped it was a tranquilizer. She lifted her head and looked at Ginny. "Yes?"

"Violet false eyelashes!"

Ginny waved them about. Hermione thought they looked like tarantulas whose mothers had become inebriated and bred with the local eggplant. She realized with a shudder that she was expected to adhere the illegitimate arachnid/eggplant offspring onto her eyes.

By the time Ginny had completed her ministrations Hermione was almost blind, and almost completely unable to walk. Ginny wished her luck, and sent her down to the dungeons, giving her a pronounced push at Professor Snape's door.

Hermione struggled desperately to support herself. "Hello, Professor," she said. She wanted to purr it lustily, but her voice seemed to catch in her throat.

"Good God, Miss Granger," replied Professor Snape, "You look like a prostitute."

All of a sudden, Hermione felt very foolish. Very foolish, and rather cold. She wished she'd brought a jacket. And she felt, for a moment, as though she might cry. She thought she had looked so insatiably female.

"Have you been at one of Albus's costume parties?" asked Snape. "That seems to be the sort of outfit he'd like."

Hermione could have ended the discussion there simply by nodding her head, and the couple could well have enjoyed a long and lasting friendship spent in political and literary discussions. They would never have had to endure the panicky fluctuations of a romantic relationship, and while each of them might have experienced moments where they thought they felt something more for one another, they would be sensible enough to shake their heads, secure in the knowledge that requited love is much more painful than unrequited love. Professor Snape would have come to feel a deeply paternal affection towards her, and would have been able to sit by her side as she sobbed after experiencing her first real heartbreak (a young pureblooded Wizard with a genius for arithmancy who would justify the breakup by telling her that she simply wasn't very loveable.) The friendship would have featured endless pourings of tea into teacups – and when they discussed Eliot, many years down the road, as it would take some time for Hermione to move from regency romances to Eliot's complete works, they would both pause over the notion of a life measured out by coffee spoons. Later, still, when he died, Hermione would give his eulogy, with her own children in attendance, who, while they felt very sorry for Hermione, would never understand why their mum felt such a curious attachment to that greasy haired old git. She would intend to read all of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" which seemed like something Severus would have liked read at his funeral (she had toyed with the notion of "Funeral Blues" by Auden, but rejected it, as she didn't want people to think that she had been surreptitiously in love with Professor Snape all those years) but would never be able to finish it, and would be overcome by a tumult of tears before those women of Eliot's ever got a chance to come and go, let alone talk of Michelangelo. Her eldest son, Willard, who had a sense of propriety, would pull her away from the podium, and take her place, where he would recite a reasonably amusing story about how Uncle Snape had once taught him how to kill flies with his wand. Hermione would sit in her chair, next to her husband of 32 years, and would try not to think of anything.

It wouldn't have been such a dreadful thing. It would have been, more or less, a lovely little life for both of them. But that is not the way it happened. Because Hermione refused to have spent the last three hours dressing up like a drunken prostitute for nothing.

So much depends upon purple false eyelashes beside a pair of neon pink high heels.

Hermione took a step forward and fell down. Professor Snape looked disgusted. "Have you been drinking, Miss Granger?" he asked.

"No," replied Hermione, though with five layers of lipstick smeared over her mouth it wasn't articulated quite as clearly as she would have liked.

She stood up again. She remembered she was supposed to drop something. But she hadn't brought anything! Hermione scanned the room frantically for a pencil or pen. The closest she could come was an encyclopedia of potion's ingredients, which she grasped from the desk and threw to the ground with terrifying force.

"My word," thought Professor Snape, as he watched her toss his books about with gay abandon, "the poor girl is having a nervous breakdown. It must have been the interview with that Skeeter woman."

Hermione tried to display her assets to their best advantage as she picked up the book, but instead hurtled headfirst to the ground after it.

"Miss Granger," said Professor Snape, "please sit down."

"Yessss, Professor," purred Hermione as she wobbled into his armchair.

"Now," continued Professor Snape, "I think it's possible that someone may have drugged you. Or that you're experiencing a breakdown of some sort. So I'm going to go get Madame Pomfrey."

Hermione looked aghast. "I don't need Madame Pomfrey!" she exclaimed.

"I would contend that you most certainly do," retorted Professor Snape, gazing over at his encyclopedia which was still lying on the floor.

"No, I really don't."

"Miss Granger, you may not think you do, and you may not be aware of this, but you're not acting at all like yourself at the moment. Or, for that matter, any reasonably well adjusted person."

"I'm aware of that, but..."

"But?"

"But I was acting this way for a reason."

"I can't see any reason which would merit your ludicrous attire. Fifty points from Gryffindor for being improperly dressed, incidentally."

"I was... I'm a woman, Professor Snape! A woman!"

"I'm absolutely going to fetch Madame Pomfrey."

"Don't you see?" cried Hermione. "Can't you understand?"

"I understand that you're behaving in a manner that is both unorthodox and improper. And really, it's downright vulgar to treat a book with such indifference. There is a reason quidditch is not played with manuscripts. You're very lucky that I'm not assigning you detention."

"Professor Snape, please let me explain..."

"Explain."

"It's very difficult."

"Well, give it a try."

"You see, in the past weeks I think that our relationship... well, I wouldn't call it a relationship, but our acquaintance has changed from something into something else."

"You're not being terribly clear."

"I think it's grown. I think it's grown in a precise way."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Believe me, I wish I did."

"You wish you did?"

"Yes."

"I want us to be more than friends."

"Oh, no."

"But you said you wished..."

"I thought you were having a nervous breakdown. I wished you were making a logical statement, I did not, by any stretch of the imagination wish you were making that particular statement."

Hermione felt she really would cry now. The tears were beginning to well up in her eyes, but she knew that if she cried, horrible things might happen with the purple dye, and then she would probably be permanently blinded. So she was trying to be stoic.

"Don't cry you stupid little girl."

"I'm not a stupid girl! You're horrible!"

"I'm perhaps somewhat upset. Understandably so."

"So does that mean that you haven't any feelings for me at all? That you've never even considered it? Willard said...."

"Voldemort lies. He's friendly, and charming, and a pathological liar. He's not the best source to trust on anything. Don't mistake me, I believe in his ideas for reform, but I don't for a moment think that he's confined by the common moral code."

"So you really don't find me even a little bit attractive? I had hoped that you might... even if you couldn't act on it that you might... like me."

"Oh, Miss Granger, I am fond of you. And I'm not fond of many people. And yes, in different circumstances I could consider it. Though, I think to be fair it's worth pointing out that I haven't proved to be an excellent suitor in the past. You could ask Bellatrix about it. I'm cruel, and insulting and about as cuddly as a porcupine. I would never remember an anniversary, and I would invariably forget your birthday."

"I think it would be wonderful to have my birthday forgotten by you."

"Well, it won't happen. You'll find some nice boy who will remember your birthday and all those other milestones, and you'll be very happy."

"Will you be? Happy, that is."

"I think, in one way or another, I'll get by."

"I think I could make you happy. I worked really hard on this stupid outfit just because I thought it might please you."

"Then the relationship would almost certainly be doomed. One ought to consider oneself first. You really must learn to stop wanting to please other people all the time. I don't."

Hermione looked miserable. Professor Snape sighed in a worldly way. "Come along now, Miss Granger. I'd be happy to talk to you about all this, but Albus is sending Susan over for her first assignment as my assistant. It would be best if we continued this another time."

"I can't," remarked Hermione petulantly, "I keep falling down in these shoes."

"I'll help you. Come lean on me." He bent down, and proffered an arm which Hermione took eagerly. She stumbled to her feet, teetering somewhat. He braced her. And then she fell. He lunged out to grab her, and as she stumbled her lips collided with his. More precisely, his lips collided with her teeth. She realized with a sudden thrill of glee that he was kissing her teeth! And then, though Hermione would be hard pressed to tell you exactly how the transition occurred, his tongue was down her throat, and her tongue was in his mouth, and she realized that, while the odds seemed against it, she actually was a fallen woman.

And it was at that most unfortunate moment that Susan Bones walked into the room.


	13. A Horse of a Different Color

Susan Bones looked like a toddler who had just been given an ice-cream cone and couldn't yet believe her magnificent good fortune. For quite a few minutes she just stood there, saying nothing, smiling with unfettered, giddy delight. "I'm going to be a potions mistress!" she thought. "I can blackmail them up the Wahoo! I'm going to be a potion's mistress. And I'm going to have enough galleons to afford a pony. A pony and a castle of my very own." Miss Bones might not have been Elfton material, but her thoughts did have a certain impressive child-like directness.

Severus would have obliviated her immediately, had he not had demonstrated a considerable lack of foresight (as who knows when evil blackmailing potion mistress wanna-bes might sweep through the door while one is kissing underage students) in leaving his wand on the coffee table. He lunged for it, but Susan quickly darted in front of him and pounced on it. She had amazing reflexes for a Hufflepuff. Hermione could have – and probably should have - obliviated Susan, but the thought honestly never occurred to her. Obliviating someone was not only not cricket, it was documented as being against the school rules in _Hogwarts: A History._ So was seducing your middle aged potion's professor, but some rules were made to be broken.

"Wow," Susan said, gazing at Hermione's outfit, "you look like a prostitute. Does he make you dress up like that all the time? It must be _really _uncomfortable. Not that I'm one to pass judgment."

Hermione attempted to cover her feathered bottom with her hands. Severus gestured brusquely towards a blanket in the armchair, which Hermione grasped and wrapped about herself, giving herself a perverted, feathery, Nanook of the North meets Klondike Kate quality.

"It's not what it looks like," Severus said.

"It looked like Hermione was dressed up in a ludicrous outfit and you had your tongue down her throat. It looked quite unappetizing, really. But you're not quite my type."

"Octogenarian dunderheads are your type," muttered Severus.

"Pardon?"

"Umm..." interjected Hermione, "I was actually having a seizure."

"A seizure?" asked Susan.

"A massive one."

"I was under the impression that during seizures they often lodged a spoon at the back of a person's throat to prevent them from swallowing their own tongue. Professor Snape must have been using his tongue, at great personal risk to himself, in order to prevent you from asphyxiating. How extraordinary."

Hermione looked a bit surprised. "Did you have parents in the medical profession?" she enquired.

Susan shook her head. "People always seem to be under the impression that we Hufflepuffs are idiots. I really never understood why."

"I don't think you're idiots," quipped Snape, "I think you're Hogwart's own personal communist party. You all march along like the Fascisti until one of you is thrust into the spotlight like Chairman Mao. You're strange, militant, group thinking, frightening little people."

"The fascisti were associated with the fascist party," whispered Hermione to Professor Snape.

"That's beside the point, Miss Granger," he replied. "It's the principle of the institution."

"It's better than being a biased, sycophantic, pretentious Slytherin," stated Susan flatly.

"Personally, Miss Bones, I may not think you're a complete drooling nit-wit," replied Snape, "but then, what's my opinion compared to thousands of others?"

Susan glared. Professor Snape glowered. Hermione didn't do anything, but she was glad she was a Gryffindor.

"Really," declared Professor Snape, "nothing particularly untoward was happening."

"Really." replied Susan skeptically, "really."

"Miss Granger, I admit, did come in here with the intention of satisfying some schoolgirl fantasy pertaining to myself. I rebuffed her, as was only appropriate. Unfortunately, when I helped her up from her chair, she fell over. I caught her."

Hermione shot him an enraged look – had that tender moment then his gums met her incisors meant nothing?

"And your lips just happened to fall onto hers. Well, of course," noted Susan, "that happens to me all the time."

Hermione felt smugly secure that she and Severus had indeed had a "moment" and a moment not just induced by impractical footwear.

"It's our word against yours, you Hufflepuff batcase," replied Snape adamantly.

"I think you'd find Professor Dumbledore takes my word very seriously. And while he may not object to you fornicating with Hermione, he'd definitely object to 'Hufflepuff batcase.'"

"We know all about your affair with Dumbledore," said Hermione coolly, "it's within our capacity to tell the world about it."

"Oh, no!" replied Susan, lifting her hands to her mouth in mock shock.

Hermione stared at her, baffled. "You think the world would just accept it, do you?"

"I think the world would say that you have no proof. Meanwhile, I do."

"No, you don't," retorted Severus.

"Do too."

"I refuse to play that infantile game," said Professor Snape.

"Do not," replied Hermione, who was all for infantile games.

"Do too."

"Perhaps you might be so good as to inform us what it is that you think you have? Aside from a blithering array of probable venereal diseases," suggested Snape. Hermione looked at him as though she found his comment distasteful, but didn't seem inclined to defend Miss Bones at just that moment.

"I have it all on tape."

"On tape?" queried Snape, "You mean sticky tape? What does that have to do with anything?" He turned and faced Hermione, "Is this some sort of new age slang?"

"No, no," replied Hermione, "you mean you recorded it. You see, Professor Snape it's this muggle technology..." she paused. "Oh, my God, you recorded it?"

Susan nodded smugly. Hermione's jaw dropped. Professor Snape looked mystified.

"How did you..." wondered Hermione.

"My Aunt Amelia, of course. She _is _the head of the Department of Magical Law enforcement, you know, and muggle recorders are used quite commonly in court hearings now. I thought they sounded interesting, she got me one for my last birthday."

"What exactly does this all mean?"

"It means she has a transcript of everything we said."

"Oh, God," whispered Snape. He then frantically tried to lunge for his wand – it seemed like there still might be a chance to obliviate her. It was preferable to the alternative, anyway. His verve, and those billowing black robes of his, caused him to take a nasty tumble. Hermione bent over to help him up.

"Careful," said Susan, "his lips might fall onto yours again. I've heard that happens when you help people up."

Professor Snape resigned himself to sitting down in his armchair and sulking. After a few moments had passed he held up his hands and asked, "Why? Why would you have the recorder on now?"

"It was my first day as your potion's assistant. I really do have an interest in the field, and I wanted to suck the marrow out of any tidbits you might impart to me. Not quite in the same way Miss Granger would, I imagine, but still..."

"There's no need to be vulgar, you shrew."

"There's no need to be rude."

"I'm not being rude. You're just insignificant. You have delusions of adequacy."

"Some would say I'm more than adequate."

"Some also enjoy fucking chickens and cramming tortilla chips up their noses. There's no accounting for taste."

"Professor Snape, do you really feel this is the best way for us to come to an amicable agreement?"

"We had intentions of coming to an amicable agreement? I was just going to obliviate you."

"Well, as proven from your past attempts, you may not be quite spry enough for that. It was also rather stupid of you to mention it as my tape recorder is still running."

"I hate you," murmured Snape, "I really, really hate you."

"That sounds so familiar," murmured Susan, "Oh, I know. My Aunt Amelia told me that whenever you're stuck in a really dull meeting or class, you should clasp your hands and trace "I hate you, I really hate you," onto your palm with your index finger. It makes you appear amused and riveted by the conversation. I've tried it a number of times in your class."

"I hate you, too," muttered Hermione.

"All right," said Susan, "everyone hates everyone."

"I don't hate Professor Snape, though," interjected Hermione.

"Well, I thought that would be obvious."

"Then it was rather silly to say 'everyone,' wasn't it?" stated Hermione with the crisp briskness often found in highly efficient librarians.

"The point, really, Miss Granger, is that I hate Miss Bones with the vengeful passion of a thousand suns," declared Snape.

"I'm glad I'm not going to be working with you after all," retorted Susan, "you're not a very good teacher, you know. You're far too petty"

"You've cut me to the core."

"I'm sure she only meant to nick your core a little," whispered Hermione.

"You can pretend you don't care," replied Susan, "but I know you'd be devastated if you lost your job. And he-who-must-not-be-named,"

"You mean Willard? Or is it El Elegance Elegante by now?" interrupted Hermione.

"He-who-must-not-be-named would probably hunt you down and kill you."

Hermione snickered – she didn't believe sweet, friendly Willard would ever really be capable of doing that. Severus snickered as well – he knew that murders were always Bellatrix's area of expertise.

"Is there something funny about that?"

"No, it's just such a clichéd idea of why any angsty man might be maintaining his current job," said Hermione, "I mean, don't you feel that life threatening danger is just a little too conveniently dramatic a motivation? What about inertia? What about the job offering a good dental plan?" Hermione would certainly maintain a less than pleasant occupation if it offered a terrific dental plan.

"Don't be silly, Miss Granger," replied Professor Snape, with his lips quivering ever so slightly, "why would I ever continue teaching dunderheads unless the Dark Lord was eternally lying in wait for me?"

"Better the devil you know than..."

"Please, Miss Granger. It's quite obvious that anyone who seems dissatisfied with their current occupation, but remains is only doing so because otherwise a maniacal overlord would kill them. A sensible girl like you ought to know that."

Hermione smiled in return, "I suppose I've just been a little slow on the uptake."

They stood, smiling at one another, somewhat inappropriately, but then, everyone in the room already knew they were engaged in an inappropriate relationship.

"So then," said Susan, clicking off her tape recorder, "I really think it would be in your best interest – both of your best interests – to begin bargaining."

"Bargaining?" questioned Hermione weakly, "You mean blackmail."

"I'd like a pony," said Susan, "I always asked for one when I was a child, and my parents always just thought I was being precocious and making some sort of social commentary on children asking for things they can't have. But the truth of it is, I'd really just like a pony. If possible, I'd like it to be pink."

"Is this another new age colloquialism?" Professor Snape asked Hermione. "Is it along the lines of 'I'm feeling blue', or 'seeing red' or something like that?"

"No," replied Susan, "I just want its fur to be naturally pink. Not that light, wimpy pearly pink, either, a good hearty rose hue. Not that unattractive matronly rose hue, though. A happy pink. You know what I mean. I'd like it to be the same color as Hermione's shoes."

"There aren't any neon pink ponies," pointed out Hermione.

"That's your problem, not mine. I think if you look very hard, you'll be able to find one," Susan stated with certainty. There _had _to be pink ponies out there, there just _had _to be. Trevor the Tapeworm, from the confines of his jar, commiserated – he'd often thought he might be able to come to requite the giant squid's love, if only the squid weren't such a disagreeable shade of grey. If the squid were pink, for instance, it would have been a different story indeed. At the moment Trevor found himself very attracted to Miss Granger's footwear.

"She's completely delusional," Professor Snape whispered to Hermione.

"I heard that," replied Susan, "and I really don't think you're qualified to judge me. You sleep with students and have deranged overlords running about after you. You're not exactly well adjusted by many people's standards."

"But you're well adjusted by my standards," breathed Hermione dreamily. Professor Snape looked deeply disturbed - he wasn't sure he could be in a healthy relationship with someone whose standards were quite that low.

"After that, I want a chateau. I want a chateau with house elves. A fleet of house elves, and I want them all to be Elfton graduates. I want the most advanced racing broom known to the Wizarding world. I want one of those waffle makers that muggles have." Susan was beginning to realize that she really hadn't put an inordinate amount of thought into her wish list. "I want a villa in Tuscany. I want a bikini. I want a really good box of chocolates. But mostly, I want that neon pink pony."

For a moment, Hermione really did empathize with her. She'd like a neon pink pony too, if they existed.

"And you're not going to get any of it," quipped Professor Snape in a gleefully sadistic tone."

"Then I'll turn you into the media. They'll destroy you!" exclaimed Susan, with equal glee.

"You're not going to do that either," replied Snape flatly.

"Is this some sort of hypnotic trick?" Hermione murmured to Professor Snape, noting his bold, emphatic pronouncements.

"No," replied Professor Snape quite loudly, "it's simply that we still have carbon copies of the entire Bones/Albus correspondence."

"What?" gasped Susan.

"When Professor Dumbledore mentioned your love affair I took the liberty of collecting a few letters. The originals are tucked away, of course, but I think there's a copy of one over there on the cofee-table."

Susan darted over and noted that it was, indeed, her letter to Albus. And the one where she told him she liked him more than marsupials, too – how _could_ he give that away to someone as disagreeable and greasy as Professor Snape? She didn't notice the coffee stains on it, which ensued when, in a laughing fit induced by marsupial love, Professor Snape knocked his mug onto the table.

"I'll tell you what we're going to do," said Snape, "I'm not going to inform the media about your affair with Albus, and you're not going to mention anything you thought you saw here. I think you'll find our evidence against you is far more incriminating than any you possess. But that's just my sentiment. If you want, I'm prepared to put it to a test."

Susan looked flabbergasted, and more than a little infuriated, "I... I'll talk to Albus about this!"

"Could I please have my wand back before you go, Miss Bones?"

"I'll send it to you by post," she stated, as she stalked from the room in an enraged huff. How was she going to get a pink pony if she couldn't even blackmail people effectively?

"I almost feel sorry for her," sighed Hermione, after Susan's departure.

"I don't," retorted Severus. "Christ, what are we going to do?"

"What do you mean?"

"If we can't publish the documents, we can't have Albus thrown out. If we do publish the documents, she'll take hers to the press, and I'll be thrown out too."

"Oh. Perhaps we should floo Willard about it?"

In a matter of moments, after a series of simple incantations, Voldemort's cheerful face appeared in the fireplace, sucking a sweet. Severus explained the situation, and requested his help.

"Oh, that's easy!" exclaimed Voldemort, as though the solution was perfectly obvious. "I think we should kill her. But first I'm going to have a party to celebrate my new name! It'll be exceedingly elegant!" he faded into the fire, giggling maniacally to himself.


	14. There is a Manor in the Clouds

His hands, calloused from years of potionsaccidents, tugged on her zipper. It refused to move, forcing him to continue to tug, harder this time. One might even say in dominating, lordly way. Her taut back arched against his knuckles in a way that seemed almost feline. "I'm doing this solely to please you, you know," he groaned. "I'm getting no personal enjoyment out of this whatsoever. None..."

Finally, her zipper was as it ought to be, and she breathed a sigh of relief before remarking, "Well, look, Sevvie, I know fancy dress shopping isn't exactly your cup of tea, but Tom – I mean Vol – I mean El Elegance Elegante does insist on this party, and I didn't have any other time to pick out something to wear. I can't imagine how muggles deal with these idiotic zippers – how does anyone reach them?"

"I think the whole idea of wearing this sort of dress is that you won't have to remove it yourself," replied Severus, "though obviously, you're a married woman, so you will. Husband home yet?"

Bellatrix scowled, but returned to good spirits after catching sight of herself in the mirror. "God, I am stunning, aren't I?" she murmured. "Murder is so marvelous for the complexion. What a glamorous thing I am. The fact that I kill people just gives me that little extra edge that makes me, well, sexier, more compelling, doesn't it?" Severus remained silent until he noted Bellatrix fingering her wand a trifle menacingly. "Yes," he replied, "torturing people into insanity is very, very, hot."

"Hot?" Bellatrix crinkled her adorable nose.

"It's copasetic."

"We're going to bring back proper colloquialisms after the victory, you know. We'll be bringing back ingenious, entertaining slang with a vengeance."

"That will be..." Severus paused, "true blue."

"Speaking of blue, how do you feel about this dress?"

"That dress is not blue. It's green."

"I just meant it in the sense of we're talking about colors, so we might as well address my gown. I admit, it was a weak transition."

Severus stared at her pensively, his nostrils flaring out as he noted the delicately applied paillette appliqué. "I wonder..." he mused, causing Bellatrix to glance down at herself apprehensively and ruffle her skirt, "I wonder why everyone persists in thinking that I have any knowledge of what is or is not fashionable?"

"Probably something to do with your robes. They billow so dramatically, it seems like you put work into them."

"My robes billow?"

"You should get a full length mirror and watch yourself sometime."

"That's really why women ask me for advice on clothing? And ask in such a way that they seem to expect me to be able to offer valuable input?"

"Well, that and Snape Manor, of course."

"Snape Manor?"

"Otherwise known as Le Chateau de Snape. It's your ancestral castle in the South of France."

"I've never even been to the South of France. I have been to Paris, though."

"You have?"

"Lucius insisted I see it back in our student days. I couldn't afford both the train fare and a hotel, so I ended up sleeping on park benches."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"I honestly don't see what all the fuss is over. The whole city gave me a backache."

"Well, then, you should have stayed at Snape Manor."

"There is no Snape Manor."

"I heard from a very good source that there is. And that it comes stocked with a breathtaking wine cellar and a staff of ten thousand elves, which will win the heart of any maiden, even those with proletariat sensibilities. And it has a gate around it that's built of dung bombs and... I don't know, jewels."

"Bellatrix, you're not serious."

"It's a common misperception."

"You know, I always did feel that I ought to have a manor house growing up. I would sit around in that hovel they called an apartment and wait patiently for a man to come up to the door, and sweep me up in his arms exclaiming, "'Lord Severus, we've found you at last!" The man never materialized though. Thus, I do not have a manor."

"Well, people believing you have a manor is almost as good as actually having one, isn't it? Periodically, you should just say faintly cosmopolitan things like "I recall the night air in Paris..."

"I do. Bloody cold on those park benches."

"Or, 'this is a playful little merlot – it's nice after that somber yet frisky bordeaux.' And no one will ever, ever doubt that you have breathtaking property somewhere, and that you're practically landed gentry. If you don't want it to be in France – though I must tell you France does seem to be the common consensus – then put it in Russia. Or, ooh, I know, Romania!"

"So that Vlad the Impaler and I might take a nightly jaunt through the peasant's fields with our house elves skipping merrily along behind us?"

"You can compare notes on 16th century etchings of whatever it is nobles look at."

"The only etchings I've seen are ones I wouldn't feel comfortable discussing with a man as refined as Vladimir the Impaler."

"I'm sure you could bond over your shared interest in terrorizing children."

"I've heard those rumors about my walking companion were highly exaggerated."

"As you have a close personal friendship with him, I'll take your word for it. Now, about this dress..."

"It's nice."

"Just nice?"

"Very nice."

"But does it truly bring out my most fabulous self? Would you profess your undying devotion to me and ravish me were I wearing this dress? If only because I need to be ravished because I can't manage the zipper myself."

"Bellatrix, are you trying to seduce me?"

"No."

"You can't have anyone in mind..."

Bellatrix sighed. She wasn't up for this kind of banter, and her long standing intrigue with El Elegance Elegante – the intrigue which never quite came to fruition in the form of an affair - was beginning to frustrate her. If only he weren't so perversely moral! She had decided that some action needed to be taken, either in the form of one exceedingly beautiful dress or a love philter. The time and money invested would be about equal, but she did want to feel that she had managed the seduction without overt manipulation. Especially when she was trying to seduce a man who routinely slaughtered people who tried to manipulate him.

Severus looked almost mollified as he replied, "I think the green is good. Very Slytherin."

"Well that's just it, I know it's good, but I wear it so often. It won't surprise him. I was thinking of red, that way we can match! We'll look like such a couple."

"Is he wearing red robes?"

"No. Why would he be? I thought he was going to wear black, just like always."

"But you said you wanted to match."

"Oh, not his robes. Have you ever noticed how his eyes have little flecks of red in them? I find it really attractive. It's kind of cute, like he's always just coming down with the Ebola virus and is in need of nursing."

"He's sick with love for you?"

"Something like that. What was so pressing that you needed to see me now? If you're aspiring to be a fashion consultant, I think you'd best stick with your day job."

"It's a little problem with Miss Granger."

"She's not turning us into the Ministry or anything, is she?" Bellatrix's wand was at the ready once again.

"Oh, no, nothing like that. I suppose, more properly put, it's a little problem with Miss Bones."

"Ah, well, we have their correspondence. No worries there."

"Actually, there are some worries."

"You didn't lose the letters? I know they're fine reading material, but you have been careful with them? You haven't misplaced them in a taxicab somewhere, have you?"

"No."

"Severus, I'm really not in the mood to play guessing games. Why don't you just tell me what's wrong, and we'll go from there?"

"IkissedMissGranger."

"You what?"

"She was wearing these absurdly tall shoes and..."

"No, really, I have no idea what you said. You were mumbling."

"I..." Severus made a dismissive gesture with his hand, "you know."

"No."

"Think hard."

"You slept with Hermione?"

"No. My lips just fell onto hers accidentally."

"Oh, you kissed her. Well, that's not terribly scandalous in itself. Though congratulations! You're both so intelligent, I'm sure you'll raise erudite daschunds together."

"Daschunds?"

"Far be it from me to mention those snot nosed monsters people so commonly call children."

"I kissed the girl once by accident. We're not raising anything together."

"That's what they all say."

"Oh, God."

"I'm only teasing."

"Oh, God, what if she wants daschunds? What if she goes and gets herself pregnant and swears the baby's mine so that she drops out of school and I have to marry her? And then I'll never have a moment to myself ever again. We'll have toddlers with cereal stuck in their hair and the whole house will smell of apple juice and we'll lose our wide array of interests and become household drones. I think it's best that I never see her again."

"Don't you think you're being a bit extreme? I mean, did she at any point say, 'Severus, I want to settle down and raise twenty children?' She doesn't strike me as that kind of girl. She's sensible. Motivated. And you're attracted to her, so why not have a bit of a fling? It would be good for you."

"You really think she's only interested in a fling?"

"She's seventeen! What else could someone that age be interested in?" Bellatrix bit her tongue when she thought of mentioning her own marriage at the age of eighteen. "Trust me, it's not as though she's secretly wildly in love with you and has been fantasizing about you for ages."

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

"Well, I suppose everything is all right then."

"So tell me about this passionate, sheerly physical liaison with Miss Granger. I so wanted to sleep with my potion's professor when I was a schoolgirl..."

"I really did only kiss her. Once."

"Come now, you can tell me..."

"No. Really. That's all."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"That's the worst liaison ever. I mean, that's not terribly naughty schoolgirl is it?"

"No, and it's not going to be."

"That's so sad."

"If it's any consolation, she was wearing fishnets, and high heels, and something that made feathers shoot from her behind."

"Nothing says love like horrid, horrid clothing."

"That's not the problem though. The problem is that Miss Bones came in right as I was kissing her. Awkward timing."

"So you obliviated her."

"Believe me, I tried to."

"You didn't obliviate her? Good God, what were you thinking? Were you thinking?"

"It was impossible, she grabbed my wand. I wasn't sure I could trust Miss Granger to be completely devoted to us were I to obliviate one of her peers."

"Personally, I would have chanced it after sticking my tongue down Hermione's throat, but I suppose that could be a personal thing. Anyway, it's not the end of the world. She hasn't got any proof."

"Actually..."

"Actually, what? There is no actually."

"She had this muggle device. I believe it's called a tape recorder."

"Was she trying to hang up pictures?"

"No, no, it copies people's voices down. Like a Quick Quotes Quill. Only with voices."

"How ingenious."

"Except when it's used on you."

"Uh hum."

"As you confess – all but brag, really – about kissing schoolgirls."

"Mmm hmm."

"So you see, it's a quite different situation than it used to be. We can't go right to the media – we'll have to make sure Rita delays the story, but I've already talked to Hermione about contacting her – without Miss Bones turning around and saying that she knows that I'm a pedophile."

"You're not a pedophile. I mean, the kissing schoolgirls thing does have a certain pedophiliac bent to it, but Dante loved Beatrice when she was only 14."

"Regardless, it's a messy situation."

Bellatrix paused, and ran her fingers up and down her wand. Suddenly, her eyes sparkled, "Well," she said, "it's not all _that _messy. This tape recorder is just one object, isn't it? And I don't see Miss Bones as having been clever to lock it up in Gringotts. So we'll just have someone go into the room and steal it."

"But who? I don't think it's wise for me to do it. While I'd be happy to normally, my position is already precarious enough. We don't want it to look as though I'm breaking into young girls rooms with heaven knows what depraved designs."

"We'll get someone. We'll need someone really ferret-y. It's times like these I rather wish Pettigrew were still working closely with us. This is the sort of thing he'd be so good at."

"Ferret-y, you say?"

"Yes. Oh. _Oh. _ That's right. Didn't Lucius' boy once..."

"Get turned into a ferret. Yes. And he is indeed ferret-y."

"And he'd be so perfect! I mean, he'd do anything for house points wouldn't he? And he really, really wants to be in the club. I can't blame him – what child wouldn't want a tattoo that their parents would have to approve of? Just tell him it's the standard proving-yourself-to-be-a-follower-of-the-Dark-Lord procedure. Say that at some point, we all have to steal muggle artifacts to demonstrate our commitment to ridding the world of mudblood scum."

"I think he'd be more than willing."

"Good. That's cleared up then. So, were we going with red or green on the dress? I must say I do think there's something about a red dress..."

"How interesting, Miss Granger was saying the same thing. About it having a certain romantic element. A kind of power towards metamorphosis – changing from a bookish girl into a refined, intelligent woman."

"She actually said all of that to you?"

"Something along those lines."

"Well, I can see where she's coming from. A red dress does have a certain allure – it crops up enough in art, and literature. Especially romance novels. It's the kind of gift heroes are always giving to heroines."

"She mentioned that."

"You're sending one to her? Oh, Severus, that's so romantic of you!"

"I didn't say anything vaguely resembling that."

"But you were thinking about it!"

"I suppose it might be a nice gesture. But I don't want her getting any ideas about daschunds."

"It's a perfectly brilliant gesture. If a man sent me a gorgeous dress to wear to a ball, I'd not only fulfill his naughty schoolgirl fantasies, I'd enjoy doing it."

"Why didn't you ever tell me you were such an easily bought strumpet back in our student days?"

"It took me years to get to become an easily bought strumpet."

"You really think I should send a dress?"

"I think we've seen that the choosing of clothing isn't something Miss Granger has inordinate interest in. You won't be depriving her of the pleasure of picking out her own attire for the party. And she's already more or less told you she'd like to receive a red dress as a present. It'll be fun; I'll help you pick it out. I have a fairly good idea of her size. And the only requirement is that it be red."

"You really think that this is a good idea?"

"Severus, in this whole mixed up muddled mess, I think somebody deserves to get exactly what they want."


	15. Pureblooded Love Monkey

"So essentially," Snape declared, "it's like a game."

"A fun game," Bellatrix elaborated, "a fun, fabulous game that lets you put those goddamn blood traitors in their place."

Draco was nibbling on the tip of his quill, he was in such a state of fevered anticipation. Bellatrix and Snape were talking to _him _about the Death Eaters! They were actually going to let him join the club. And then he would get one of those nifty tattoos! And he'd get to take over the planet! Not to mention the fact that he'd get to see people like Snape and Bellatrix on an almost daily basis. Their sheer effervescent sophistication seemed to radiate through out the room, bouncing off the walls like Weasley Wizarding Wiz. Draco wished he could have Bellatrix's baby. Hell, he wished he could have Snape's baby. But then he paused for a moment, and thought about how male bodies were completely unequipped for childbirth, and that the very idea was somewhat unnerving. In fact, it was very unnerving indeed.

"Damn dirty blood traitors!" reiterated Draco.

"Right," Snape replied, his eyes rolling discretely, "so you just need to sneak into Miss Bone's room and take her tape recorder. It will be on the premises somewhere, I just don't know where precisely. That's the challenge."

"Why would she have a tape recorder?" asked Draco.

"Because she's an evil Muggle born!" said Bellatrix.

"Mudblood," corrected Draco.

"Right," replied Bellatrix, "Mudblood."

"Do you have any ideas on how I might get the tape recorder from her?" asked Draco.

"No idea whatsoever," said Snape.

"Well I do!" replied Bellatrix.

"Good," said Draco, "what are they?"

"You'll use the formidable force of your Slytherin charm upon her."

"My what?" enquired Draco, dropping his rather mottled, drool covered quill in front of him.

"I'm not sure you've noticed," said Bellatrix, "but you're seen as quite the little Sex God."

"Really?" Replied Draco. "I was under the impression that people either disliked me or were afraid of me."

"That's why you're so sexy," Bellatrix continued, "you're misunderstood."

"I thought I tended to express myself quite clearly. You mean when I tell Potter and his friends that I hope they all die, they think it's a cocky yet funny line? Because I do actually mean that I want them dead. I could be more vehement about it if I needed to."

"Just tell her about the abuse you suffered in your childhood."

"I never suffered any abuse in my childhood. I had a fantastic childhood. People gave me everything I wanted. I remember the simple joys of it – sitting around with Father playing Ugly Mudbloods and Noble Wizards. He always let me be the Wizard. And I always got to win, because noble wizards are much better than ugly Mudbloods. Just the thought of ugly Mudbloods makes Mother want to die."

Bellatrix snorted, "So does almost everything." Snape elbowed her forcefully in the ribs.

"What did you say?" demanded Draco.

"Nothing," retorted Bellatrix. "In any event, the general consensus is that Lucius beat you and your mother, and that's why you're so angsty. It's not your fault. Heaven knows all children who suffer abuse in their childhoods have no choice but to grow up to be monstrously mean people."

"I'm not monstrously mean," replied Draco, "I'm standing up for the side of right. And more importantly, Father would never abuse me. He's my friend. He gives me great gifts, and helps me intimidate people."

"Don't worry about it," stated Snape, "people think Luna Lovegood's father abuses her too, and they're obviously pals. They both seem quite happy to live in their own private realties where they hunt imaginary dragons over the summer. People are just very quick to decide that quirky personalities are the result of bad parenting."

"You could probably move the situation with Susan along more quickly if you said Lucius abused you though," noted Bellatrix, "it's just something to consider. That is, if you want to be in the Death Eaters. Personally, I think it would be the Slytherin thing to do, to play the sympathy card if you have it handy. I'd say it would even be the pureblood thing to do. A way of winning a real game of Ugly Mudblood/Noble Wizard."

"You want me to sleep with that dirty blood traitor?"

"Well..." said Snape.

"Mudblood rape is a time honored tradition, I suppose. Though I don't think it would help get the tape recorder."

"Pardon me," said Draco, "did you say Mudblood rape was a time honored tradition?" His face contorted with distaste.

"Umm..." replied Bellatrix.

"Because that would be a disgusting thing to say. I'm shocked and appalled," said Draco.

"Well..." Said Bellatrix, "I don't mean "rape" per se..."

"I can't believe you would ever think that I'd allow my gorgeous Pureblood half Veela genes to mix with those of a Mudblood. Really, I am shocked. Perhaps you're not the gorgeously prejudiced organization I thought you were."

"Oh, no," replied Snape, "no trust me, we're really prejudiced."

"We hate those damn dirty Mudbloods," stated Bellatrix.

Snape leaned over and whispered into her ear, "Don't you think that kind of vulgarity shows a distinct lack of imagination?"

"Quiet," replied Bellatrix, "don't you remember how hip vulgarity was when you were young? And we give them tattoos. We're a very youth geared organization, Severus, and we'd do well to remember it. He's Joe Brooks so don't give me any bushwa, isk kabibble."

"What?"

"I really am trying to be up on my slang."

"That's not the youthful slang of today, Bellatrix."

"Standards of trendiness will be redefined by us after the victory."

"Ish kabibble indeed."

"Pardon me?" said Draco.

"Professor Snape was just expressing that he had doubts as how committed to the organization you really are," declared Bellatrix.

"No, I'm committed," said Draco, "really, I want that nifty tattoo."

"Good," replied Bellatrix, "now toss this wife-beater on; you've got some seducing to do."

Ten minutes later Draco was attired in a tight white tank top which revealed the faintly concave curvature of his chest. Bellatrix couldn't help but be a surprised; she had always imagined that he would be rippling with muscles. It was a common misconception about quidditch players – few people realized that the broom did most of the work. It was best to be lithe and small, thus allowing you to maneuver in the air, so it was true that one rarely saw overweight quidditch players. However, while it was a sport which built up some thigh muscles it didn't amount to a full body work-out. Which explained why the baggy jeans Bellatrix had given Draco to wear were almost slipping off his svelte body. The cowboy hat was also tragically oversized and blinded him somewhat.

"How am I supposed to seduce anyone in this ridiculous garb?" asked Draco.

"Ask Professor Snape," snorted Bellatrix, "I hear he goes in for strange costumes. It's a pity we can't find you any platform high heels."

"Platform shoes?" asked Draco, "Well, I am committed enough to wear those if you really need me to."

"No," said Bellatrix, "that wouldn't be masculine in a thuggish, bad boy way. In fact it would be rather effeminate. Oh my, you don't swing that way do you?"

"No!" exclaimed Draco, "Why does everyone always think that?"

"Perhaps because you volunteer to wear platform shoes at the merest provocation?" suggested Snape.

"I was just trying to show I'm committed," claimed Draco.

"Sure," said Snape.

"Look, I didn't come here to be insulted."

"Stop being difficult, ferret-boy!" exclaimed Snape, "You're behaving like a Gryffindor."

"How so?"

"You're filled with a strange dignity and confidence that is inappropriate in a Death Eater," explained Bellatrix.

"Oh," murmured Draco, "I'm sorry."

"Just don't let it happen again," replied Snape.

"Remember, a good Death Eater always grovels to their superiors," said Bellatrix.

"And they bring them baked goods," noted Snape. Bellatrix shot him a scornful look.

"Well, really," muttered Snape, "it doesn't hurt. Why shouldn't we have extra cookies? I like cookies."

"That sends the wrong message to new recruits," replied Bellatrix emphatically, "it's a slippery slope from being a maniacal organization feared throughout the Wizarding World, to being an organization of mild mannered pastry chefs. It's a tumble down a slope that I don't care to make. And quite frankly, Voldemort's predilection for pseudonyms isn't helping."

Draco felt the conversation was all getting a bit too esoteric for him. In an effort to turn the discussion back to his status as prospective recruit he asked, "How do you want me to seduce her?" He struggled to pull his pants up to a more discrete level.

"I've already told you," sighed Bellatrix, "tell her you had a bad childhood."

"How will that help me get the tape recorder, though? That just seems like a gratuitous seduction. And frankly, I'm not quite eager to mix my gorgeous half Veela Pureblooded genes with a blood traitor, either."

"Honestly," groaned Bellatrix, "you're not half Veela."

"What!?" replied a shocked Snape, "I always assumed the Malfoys were chalk full of Veela blood. Just look at their hair!"

"Well, I suppose with the right hair stylist anyone can be half Veela," replied Bellatrix.

"My God, you mean they dye their hair?" Snape began rummaging through the roots of Draco's hair like a chimpanzee searching for fleas on the back of a spider monkey. Draco looked pitiful and violated.

"It is dyed," marveled Snape, "he has mousey brown roots."

"Shut up!" replied Draco, "shut up, you evil, evil people!"

Snape and Bellatrix exchanged a look that indicated they were very pleased with their own deliciously malevolent natures. Today was not the day that they would have to worry about starting new careers in the pastry industry. Bellatrix thought she would feel quite safe indeed if she could only convince Voldemort to change his new alias from El Elegance Elegante to something along the lines of Mad Dog Who Kills Muggles in Wild Muggle Slaughtering Sprees. That would probably be too obvious for his sensibilities though. She'd been having tea with him yesterday and he'd been mentioning the possibility of changing his name again to "Mr. Fantastic." Bellatrix thought the name Mr. Fantastic would make him sound like a circus clown who made a living fashioning balloons into woodland animals and distributing them to small children. Though, as Bellatrix considered it further, she realized that it did have a certain unique element of horror to it. She always found that no matter how much time clowns spent making their balloons into a daschunds, they always came out looking like an old man's twisted and mangled intestines. It didn't surprise her that so many young children ran screaming from clowns. Still, she didn't think they could make people cower in mortal fear at the thought of saying "Mr. Fantastic" aloud.

"You're lucky we're not giving you the Cruciatus Curse for your impudence," stated Bellatrix with the most gravitas she could muster.

"I've heard that Muggles go through much worse than this to prove their worthiness on college campuses," noted Snape. "Besides, seducing people is fun!" The sneer on his lips indicated that it wasn't his personal favorite pastime, but the intention was certainly a noble one.

"And that Susan is so attractive!" pointed out Bellatrix.

"According to whom?" enquired Draco. "She's a slightly overweight Hufflepuff."

"Well, people," replied Bellatrix. "I can't think of a name off the top of my head, but there are certainly people out there. Important people with exquisite taste."

"I know one Pureblood Wizard is in a very intense romantic relationship with her."

"Then why would she want to sleep with me?" wondered Draco. "If she's in a happy, well adjusted relationship, she should be satisfied in that area."

"Stop this totally unnecessary application of logic!" shrieked Bellatrix. "You're the Slytherin Sex God and all women want to sleep with you, and that's all there is to it!"

"I still don't see why."

"Because you had a lousy childhood, dammit," continued Bellatrix through clenched teeth, "we've been over this. And I'm getting really very frustrated that you're not picking up on it. Perhaps you're not the best candidate for our opening in the organization."

"All right," said Draco, "fine. I'll seduce her. At least she's not a mudblood. I can almost guarantee you it won't work though. Especially in this ludicrous outfit."

"That outfit isn't ludicrous," said Bellatrix, "it's sexy. Though I admit, the two are easy to confuse sometimes."

"But I can hardly walk," mentioned Draco.

"Not being able to walk is sexy! Professor Snape can attest to it," stated Bellatrix.

"Exactly," said Snape, "you can fall on top of her, and, since the jeans made you do it, then it won't technically be sexual harassment."

"So that's why people wear baggy clothing!" cried Draco, "I never understood it until now."

"Yes. People are wily," noted Bellatrix, "especially men. Now go visit Susan, you've got some seducing to do."

Draco nodded and limped off pitifully towards the Hufflepuff dorm. Many people cast him pitying looks as he tried to keep his jeans from falling. Periodically he also stumbled into walls – the cowboy hat was blinding. He wondered what about any of this could appeal to any woman who wasn't in desperate need of a pre-frontal lobotomy.

Meanwhile, girls up and down the Hogwarts hallways swooned at the sight, murmuring "Draco, my Drakkie Draco" as they dropped to the floor in puddles of lust.

Draco finally arrived at Susan's door. He knocked politely, and she opened it, subtly licking her lips at the sight of Draco's apparel. Draco glanced around the room. The walls were painted pink. On one wall he saw a poster of a unicorn with big – gargantuan, really – purple eyes. It was freakish. On the other wall a series of letters written on blue parchment signed "your Dumbley-Wumbley" seemed to be adhered. He decided that Susan might just be crazy enough for this to work. He also noted that the tape recorder was prominently displayed on her nightstand. He figured he could grab it after he had rendered her unconscious in a state of frenzied sexual exhaustion.

The only problem lay in the fact that he had no idea how to about this. He knew he was supposed to say something about having had a bad childhood, but surely, after years of deriding Hufflepuffs – and really all houses save Slytherin at every opportunity – that wouldn't be nearly enough. He would have to be awfully charming. But then, he supposed he had to start someplace.

"I had a bad childhood," Draco replied, "sometimes I cry about it."

"Really bad?" asked Susan, a faint trickle of drool emerging on her chin. She couldn't resist men with bad childhoods.

"Bad." Draco shrugged his shoulders in a bold – yet tortured - way.

"And only I understand you! Come kiss me, you Pureblooded love monkey," breathed Susan, and she began tearing off her school robes in a fit of wild abandon.

"Wow," thought Draco and his jeans slipped from his hips, "women must be completely deranged."


	16. Verdant Bodies

Hermione had an awful sleep. For hours she'd heard shrill cries coming from Susan Bone's room, which shocked her. Not because Susan Bones was shrieking in mad sexual ecstacy – she'd come to expect that the day she'd read Albus declaring that he loved Susan "they way a marsupial loves cheese" (although the question of whether or not marsupials did love cheese preyed on Hermione's mind a great deal.) She'd ( just always assumed that they would carry out their trysts in an environment of relative privacy – perhaps Dumbeldore's quarters. But then, it was far from her to attribute any logic to the minds of lovers. She did think for a moment that Susan might be having a fling with another student. The thought flickered across her mind that it might have been Draco. He seemed to have been stumbling around, possibly drunk, wearing a funny looking hat and mumbling something about seduction the previous night.

She didn't think about it for long, though. She was well aware that it was nearly time for Ginny to arrive with her daily inquisition on what Professor Snape was like in bed. Sometimes, Hermione wished Ginny didn't have to show that she was a freethinking, liberated woman who heartily enjoyed the works and living habits of the Marquis de Sade in such a bizarre way.

She dressed and settled down to some Arithmancy homework. When she finished it and realized that Ginny still hadn't swung by to declare that she, personally, was in favor of all romantic relationships regardless of the ages of the participants, Hermione became a trifle worried. When she'd perused much of her Transfiguration reading and had still yet to hear from Ginny, she became downright concerned.

She went down to Ginny's room, and noted that the pages from the Kama Sutra which typically adorned her door had been replaced with pictures that appeared to show Saturn devouring his children. "Well," thought Hermione, "at least Ginny is being unusually tasteful about her teenage angst." Then she noted that Ginny had taped a note to her door which declared that her tears were blood, and no one understood her, and Hermione realized she thought too soon.

She entered to find Ginny sitting on the floor wearing what appeared to be black plastic. Black, tightly wrapped plastic, which would presumably be seductive if someone had a black plastic fetish. She was attempting to smoke a cigarette, and continually coughed. She hadn't gotten the inhaling bit down yet, so the smoke came out of her nostrils in two long streaks. She looked like a creature out of the universal ideal of Hell. Hermione sighed. She hated it when her peers tried to be rebellious.

"Ginny, what on earth is the matter? You look like a melodramatic schoolgirl who scribbles semi-literate verse in a paperback journal!"

"Not like a hooligan?"

"Pardon?"

"I think the typical shocked response to my new attire is supposed to run something to the effect of 'you look like a hooligan!' The term 'hoyden' would also be appropriate. Then I could respond by staring at you with disdain for your beastly, bourgeois, Babbitty outlook on life. Because I'm deeper than thou, and dressing like a hooligan reflects that."

Hermione leaned over and pinched the material on Ginny's pants. "Are these plastic?" she asked.

"I don't know. Is that Muggle? I bought them from a Muggle store."

"Which one."

"Hot topic. Hot Topic is the koolest. I said that with a 'k,' incidentally."

"What?"

"Koolest. I'm too kool for 'c.'"

"Oh my God. That's insane. They sound exactly the same, and there's nothing inherently cuter about the letter 'k.'"

"I say it because Hot Topic is also too kool for 'c,' despite featuring the letter in their name. But they might be doing that ironically."

"But they don't even have Hot Topics in England!"

"Fine, I found the pants in the dumpster behind Harrods. I just lie, and tell people they're from Hot Topic, because that sounds rebellious in a way that 'they must have overstocked them at Harrods' doesn't."

"Is there a reason for all this?"

"I found a note in Mary Sue's room saying that I was "teh hawt seductress of darkness."

"Is that to say that you actually seduce the dark? The dark itself? I can seduce the dark into being by turning off the lights, myself. Does that mean I'm a hot seductress of darkness, too?"

"No. There can only be one hot seductress of darkness." Ginny began to laugh maniacally. Debauchery was in her eyes!

"Wait a moment," said Hermione, "you've got some debauchery in your eye." She leaned over and wiped Ginny's eye with her handkerchief.

"It looks just like a stray eyelash," noted Ginny.

"Maybe to the untrained, poorly read eye," retorted Hermione, "there are those among us though, who can easily recognize debauchery. We can recognize it, and then quickly flick it out. You can usually spot it when the maniacal laughter starts up."

"You're just having issues with the fact that I'm growing up," remarked Ginny, "that I'm the sexy one and not you."

"I was the sexy one?"

"Don't tell me you haven't noticed that numerous men who skulk behind you constantly and want to bury their oversized noses in that bushy nest you call hair."

"Umm, no. Possibly because they don't exist."

"Not now that I'm around, in any event! You'll notice that I've become a sumptuous postmodern rose of desire, with curves in all the right places!"

Hermione gnawed at her lip at the phrase "curves in all the right places." She wondered if many people had curves in all the wrong places. She imagined the matter was probably fairly subjective.

"Ginny," she said gently, "you're wearing a padded bra."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. I can see the stuffing coming out of it. You have to accept the fact that you're not a naturally curvaceous woman."

"But I'm skinny!"

"That doesn't entail a curve. Unless your belly was concave, which would be reminiscent of people in a state of extreme starvation. Which would be deeply disturbing, and would probably cause men to stare at you as you walked by, but it's not arousing."

Ginny sighed, "but if I'm not the hawt seductress of darkness, then who is?"

"No one."

"What about Voldemort?"

"Given the recent findings in the press about him, I'm not sure he qualifies either. And I don't think he ever qualified as a seductress, genetically."

"But he's still Voldemort. Or Willard. I'm not really sure anymore – the whole media circus is kind of baffling. You know, what really troubles me is if he's calling himself Willard, does that mean that it would be inappropriate to say the name Willard aloud?"

"I suppose it depends on the company. If you were with a group of highly unstable aurors whose entire families had just been slaughtered by Voldemort, it would be bad."

"Maybe Bellatrix is the hot seductress of darkness! Maybe I could model myself off of Bellatrix – wouldn't that make me just too dark for words?"

"I'm pretty sure Bellatrix would never wear anything that even approximates what you're wearing. If you want to be like her, you should probably try for a subtly dark approach. Treading lightly and keeping rapiers in your heels."

"How would you know what Bellatrix is like?"

"I wouldn't. I'm just guessing. I also seem to recall that she was in _Witches Wear Daily _before she started being a seductress of darkness."

"_Witches Wear Daily _is for the bourgeois pigs who suckle off the same illiterate trough!"

"I'm not sure that a trough can be illiterate. That didn't make any sense. Or sound particularly literate. It was really quite disgusting."

"But don't you see? Doesn't my transformation make perfect sense? After years of being a neglected aspect of my family I'm rebelling against my cruel, oppressive parents."

"How can you be both neglected and oppressed? Sorry, I'm a little confused. Just a little."

"Shut up, Babbitt." Ginny began to pout.

"I've always thought your family seemed very loving and supportive. If anyone has anything to be angsty about it's Harry, and he seems to keep it in check."

"But he's the going to save the planet from Voldemort – he doesn't have that kind of time on his hands. My only function is to run about with various boys. And I heard Padma Patil call me a slut."

"What?"

"I was shocked, too. I thought I was keeping my hedonistic nature under wraps."

"But you've only had one boyfriend."

"Well, there was Neville, too. At the Yule Ball. Don't sell me short."

"But that doesn't… oh. Maybe it's because of the Kama Sutra posters hanging on the door. That could be it."

"She's not entirely wrong, you know. I've been around the block."

"No, you haven't."

"Have too."

"No. No, I know for a fact that you haven't."

"Well, I've been in the vicinity of the block. I've been within walking distance."

"Right."

"One day I shall go around the block, and then you'll see that I was a repressed temptress all along! But at the moment, you're only adding to my existential crises of self doubt. I mean, even Mary Sue was more interested in you."

"She was? How so?"

"Well, she had a replica of you built in her closet."

"A replica?"

"Like a robot. Only it had the most beautiful shiny, straight hair. And its eyes changed colors. Sometimes it would say things like "Why do I have to be such a bookworm?" or "I'm tired of being good!" or "Let me seduce you with my verdant body!"

"But verdant means green, usually covered with green plants. It's a word typically used to describe things like the Irish countryside. Was my body green?"

"You're such a word fetishist. Anyway, the sentences sounded seductive, that's what really counts."

"Let me seduce you with my green plant sprouting body?"

"To each his own - some people get aroused by strange things."

"Wouldn't it be difficult if halfway through coitus my navel suddenly sprouted an elm tree? Because that's what verdant implies."

"Look, I didn't say I was aroused by it."

"I think the really disturbing thing is that she built a facsimile of me that said anything that ridiculous."

"Do you think…"

"What?"

"No, it's too ridiculous."

"What is?"

"Do you think that perhaps she was going to lock you in the closet and let that creature out in your stead?"

"Oh my God. Thank goodness, Pansy must have pushed her out the window just in time."

"There really should be some policy enacted to stop all six year beautiful female students from coming to Hogwarts. They don't bode well for any of us."

"And yet, you've allowed your personality to be altered by her nonsensical scribblings!"

"I know. It's silly. But if I'm "teh hawt" seductress of darkness, then I must be special. I don't get to be special enough. You get to be smart, and Harry gets to save the known world when he's not doped up on whatever painkillers you're giving him, and Ron gets to eat a great deal, but what do I get? I mean, if I'm not the seductress of darkness, what am I?"

"You can be the cute seductress of a light silver shade."

"Ginny the Grey?"

"You've been reading too many fantasy novels. They're so escapist. If you keep thinking that way, you'll need a serious wake up call to reality."

"Maybe. But I've been so lonely. Would you like to go into Hogsmeade this weekend? We could get some ice cream."

"I'd love to, but I can't."

"Why not? I'm disappointed. I want you to know that I can deal with this set-back though. I'm not going to angst about it and take to some wizarding equivalent of muggle heroin. That reminds me, you should really check on Harry, I heard he raided your room for Vicodin while you were out…"

"I'm going to a party."

"With whom? Is he in our year?"

"No one in particular, I was just invited to a party…"

"Is it Professor Snape? Sevvie-poo? Sevvie-kins?"

Hermione blushed

"It is! Oh, you should tell me everything. What's he like in bed, Hermione, what's he like in bed? I love a man who appreciates feathers coming out of a woman's bottom!"

"It's good to see that everything's back to normal," breathed Hermione, "or," she murmured, after departing Ginny's room, "as normal as these so-called peers of mine seem to get. No wonder I've turned to the Death Eaters."

She went into her room and noted that a red dress was lying on the bed. She thought it might be another reason that made it worthwhile to turn to the Death Eaters – whatever their faults, they really did have panache. She wondered if it was going to be absolutely horrible. But then, Bellatrix didn't strike her as the kind to make the same mistakes Ginny did. She leaned over and slipped into it.

As Hermione gazed in the mirror she gasped with delight. The dress had more pizazz than anything she'd ever owned. It was strapless, made out of a sturdy satin fabric, lightly corseted in early Victorian style. For the first time, she really did see her hair as Botticelli-esque, and she felt very young, and very beautiful. However, if someone were to examine the dress very carefully – and it must be noted that Hermione was not – they would have found stitched into the back of the dress, just over the faint bustle, in Bellatrix Lestrange's unmistakable style a poem which ran:

_Voldemort is my Lord, or alternatively, King_

_He will let the politically disenfranchised figures in the wizarding world but not mudbloods in! _

_He can, and does, do anything_

_And his red eyes are extremely dash-ing_

_That's why I, personally, sing_

_Voldemort is my King. _


	17. A Bed of Roses

Hermione walked up the path to Chateau de Voldemort/Willard/El Elegance Elegante (or, as some liked to call him, Mad Dog Who Kills Muggles) with a very slight sense of trepidation. She couldn't find a new pair of high heels and had been left only with her neon pink platforms. On a faintly romantic level she thought they'd be charming. They'd make Professor Snape think of their first, dreadfully uncomfortable, teeth grinding embrace! On a more pragmatic level, they weren't quite right. She still couldn't walk in them. She'd rather hoped that the Death-Eaters would be so tipsy on champagne mixed with Muggle blood that they wouldn't even notice her unsteady gait. They also clashed horribly with her dress as Narcissa Malfoy certainly would have noted.

As she ambled up to the gate she was caught by a man sporting a multicolored, feathery skull mask. "May I have the password, please?" he asked.

"Pardon?" Hermione replied.

"Look at the sign." A sign above his head read, 'Password, please.'

"I didn't know there was a password. Has Voldemort been watching Muggle movies again?"

"On the contrary, I would suggest that Stanley Kubrick has been watching Voldemort. You can tell from the robes and masks. May I have the password, please?"

"Pureblood?"

"No."

"Death to Mudbloods?"

"Don't be vulgar."

"Fidelio?"

"We're quite capable of coming up with our own password, thank you very much."

"Death Eaters are cute and cuddly?"

"Closer…"

"Oh. Yellow roses."

"Exactly!"

Hermione could have kicked herself for not having realized that immediately – but that would have been impossible in those pink heels. Instead, she nodded at the masked man and continued into the house. Upon entering the main room of Chez Voldemort she noticed her hosts seated in a most unhostly fashion at the wet bar. Bellatrix waved her hand, and gestured for her to join them.

"Hello," said Hermione, "have you seen Professor Snape anywhere?"

"I'm sure he's around somewhere," replied Bellatrix, "sit down with us for a minute though; we were just talking about whether it was in bad taste to fill the entire room with yellow roses."

Hermione hadn't noticed but the room was indeed filled with yellow roses overflowing, really. Just then, a petal flopped from the netting in the ceiling and floated onto her hair. She glanced up at it.

"Do you think it's too much?" queried Voldemort. "They filled me with joy like a watermelon. Don't be around at midnight though; we're going to drop all the petals."

"Their weight is estimated at about two tons," explained Bellatrix.

"And we'll be dropping them en masse," exclaimed Voldemort.

"But people will die," replied a rather shocked Hermione, "that's horrible!"

"No one we like," demurred Bellatrix.

"Really, Hermione, nobody said a Death Eater soiree _wasn't_ a deadly bed of roses," quipped Voldemort. "Have a drink with us."

"No, no, I don't drink, and I was really hoping that I'd get back early enough to do a little research. I want to be impossibly fresh for when I read _Dire and Deadly Draughts of Doom_. You go ahead though."

"I'll have a glass of Firewhisky," Bellatrix remarked to the bartender.

"I'll have a Slaughtered Muggle on the Rocks," said Voldemort nonchalantly.

"That sounds distasteful," noted Hermione, "what is it, exactly?"

"Umm, it's very complex." replied Voldemort.

Bellatrix leaned over. "It's his special nickname for a Shirley Temple."

"Shh!" retorted Voldemort. "It is not."

"Yes it is," replied the bartender, "you already told me that when you said 'Slaughtered Muggle on the Rocks' I was to give you a Shirley Temple."

Bellatrix giggled. Voldemort looked mortified.

"I trust that this is just between us - do you have any idea the mayhem that would ensue if people knew of the Dark Lord's penchant for Shirley Temples?"

"Why don't you just drink scotch like all the other Dark Lords then?" suggested Bellatrix.

"Because I think my followers would be even more disturbed to know how after a drop or two I start singing the Gryffindor Fight song and do my Mad Eye Moody imitation."

"You're such a cute little overlord," replied Bellatrix, attempting to pinch his cheeks, and then failing miserably, as Voldemort had no cheeks.

"You're pretty cute yourself," said Voldemort, leaning over to nuzzle her cheek with the gaping hole where his nose used to be.

Hermione got the distinct impression that she was interrupting a tender couple moment. She was just about to ask where Severus was when Voldemort's usually skull like face turned a ghastly and unnatural flesh tone. He proceeded to nimbly hop over the bar, where Hermione and Bellatrix watched him crouch at the bartenders feet and murmur pitiably, "Don't let her know I'm here. She'll bring up my lack of nose again!"

Narcissa extended a languid hand to Bellatrix.

"Hello. How are you?" asked Bellatrix.

"I'm… it's not terrible… I feel so… I don't know what the word for it is actually."

"Happy?" prompted Hermione.

"Pleased?" suggested Bellatrix.

"Ecstatic, even?"

"Euphoric?"

"I think the phrase is…" Narcissa replied slowly, "so… not suicidal… and – temporarily – not overwhelmed by the ugliness, the unspeakable galloping ugliness and nausea inherent this bitter existential dilemma we so casually refer to as living."

"I feel happy, too," replied Hermione.

"I did not say 'happy,'" noted Narcissa promptly.

"I thought that to you that _was_ happy," said Bellatrix.

"I'm never happy. I'm living proof of the collected works of Sartre and Camus – but not Kafka. I've trained the house-elves to work with pesticides. Oh God, life is a meaningless charade, death the ultimate absurdity, and Hermione, your shoes clash with that dress and you have yellow foliage in your mud colored hair. Now I want to die again."

"I thought it was kind of a cute color combination," remarked Bellatrix.

"Oh my God," whimpered Narcissa, "the Philistines I have to put up with!"

Voldemort, meanwhile was creeping out from under the wet bar and moving in a majestic, if frightened, fashion across the room. Voldemort wished he could overcome his pitiable insecurity about his looks, but was yet to find a psychiatrist who could help him become a happy, well adjusted Dark Lord. Whenever he went to one they asked when he first had his accident and he found he had to explain that his killing curse rebounded upon him. The physiatrist's face would crinkle, and sometimes they would laugh a disturbed laugh. They didn't seem to take him seriously. This reinforced Voldemort's insecurities and he invariably sent Bellatrix in to kill them in their sleep. He didn't feel like thinking about finding a new one tonight, and felt he'd be unable to bear the torrent of self-loathing any meeting with Narcissa would inspire.

So he was very relieved indeed when he bumped into a man who he imagined felt as insecure about his looks as he did. However, on closer inspection Voldemort realized that that man was an Ogre someone had brought along to dance and juggle for the guest's amusement. As the Ogre was only capable of rudimentary speech, Voldemort settled for talking with Severus Snape, who was standing nearby.

"Have you seen Hermione?" asked Severus.

"She was looking for you. Oh, I see. I see. You're looking for her, she's looking for you, you're looking, searching, pining for each other. Is that true love I smell in the air?"

"No. I imagine it's the Ogre standing next to us."

"I think tonight's the night. I do indeed."

"The night? My Lord, you haven't been drinking have you? I don't think this is a proper time for the Gryffindor fight song."

"Nonsense. If your life were a euphemistically indirect romance novel, tonight would be the night your 'love tulip' would bloom."

"My love tulip?"

"In her fallow fields."

"What?"

"Her cuckoo's nest."

"Cuckoos don't have nests."

"Well that certainly says something about our sex's approach towards female sexuality, doesn't it old chap?"

"You're out Dumbledoring Dumbledore again. Please stop."

"I just want to know what you're going to say to her. How are you going to approach it?"

"Approach what?"

"The bedding."

"Literally, how will I approach my sheets and blanket tonight?"

"No, bedding Hermione."

"Pardon me?"

"I think you should go up to her, embrace her around her waist, gaze into her chocolaty eyes until they melt and stream down her face and then say, 'Darling, I want you.'"

"That would never work with any woman."

"I think I know a little bit more about women than you do."

"With all due respect, you're a disfigured snake man."

"With all due respect, I can have you Avada Kedavera'd into next week."

"Quite right."

"What was your plan?"

"If I had a plan, which I don't, it would be to say that, oh, I suppose that I find her very tolerable and quite attractive and that I think it might be a mutually satisfactory experience if we were to go to bed together."

"That's horrible. That's worst thing I've ever heard."

"I think it's frank and honest."

"No. No. Absolutely not. You go up to her and you say, "I want you. I need you. I must, I _must _have you – or I shall surely die."

"If she were to seriously to buy into that sort of melodrama she would no longer be the kind of woman I would even consider having a physical relationship with."

"But romance, Severus! Panache! Dark meetings at graveyards in aphoristically stirring masks! Intrigue! Passion! Sacrifice! Decadence! It's what the Death Eaters are all about."

"I'm afraid when it comes to my life outside of the Death Eaters I much prefer living in an age of un-innocence."

"If my tear ducts still functioned, your cynicism would make me weep."

"Your tear ducts stopped functioning?"

"As you've so eloquently pointed out, I am a disfigured snake man. They kind of function, but pus comes out. It really scares people."

"Ah. Well, I really don't see why we haven't turned that more to our advantage in battle."

"Maybe I'm just a tiny bit self conscious about it."

"I suppose."

"Seriously Severus, what do you say to a woman whom you really like?

"Women I really like?"

"When you want to be extraordinarily charming in a boudoir situation."

"Well, 'would you like to spend the night?' I suppose."

"No wonder Narcissa Malfoy doesn't think this is a fit world to live in."

"What do _you_ say?"

"That she's pushed me past the boundaries of passion. That my love for her is running free like a wild pony across the plains of my heart, eating the hay of our mutual lust."

"That's beyond bizarre, My Lord."

"That's what romance is, Severus. Nobody said it made sense."

"She still calls me Professor Snape. I still call her Miss Granger. We're not even on a first name basis."

"Some people could find that kinky."

"I think my responses are probably more effective than yours."

"But so bereft of feeling! You see, this is why I'm an Evil Overlord. The world needs someone to re-write its wretched, _wretched_ dialogue."

At that very moment Hermione managed to evade Narcissa, who had now curled up in a fetal position at the other end of the hallway. Hermione secretly hoped she was rushed under a giant pile of rose-petals – a thought which immediately caused her to worry that she was buying too much into the death eater mentality. She scampered over as nimbly as she could in that footwear. She thought this was probably the time to be bold and gregarious in Snape's presence.

"Hello," she said, and proceeded to blush until her face matched her dress.

"Hello," replied Snape, averting his eyes.

"This is too sexy for words," said Voldemort, "I'll just bow out gracefully."

"You look quite nice in that dress," Severus said in a tone completely devoid of flirtatiousness.

'He's flirting with me!' thought Hermione. "It's supposed to be symbolic of my transformation from a girl into a luscious voluptuary."

"I suppose that's another way of putting it."

"I'm glad you like it. I wore it for you, you know."

"Oh. Well, that's interesting. I had Bellatrix pick it out and send it."

"I thought you would have picked it out yourself. You'd have spent hours coming the racks in some store with a name vaguely related to a store we actually know exists, like "Madame Malkin's Fancy-wear Upscale Venue" or "Flourish and Bott's Finery!"

"No. That would be a horrible idea. I wouldn't have known how to go about it. In my experience only two types of men really do, and they're either playing for the other team or caper around in women's lingerie in the privacy of their own homes. Contrary to the comments of my detractors, I'm hardly liberated enough to indulge in either of those lifestyles."

"Too bad."

For a moment Severus had thought that maybe he wouldn't have to go through the awkward motion's of seducing her at all! Maybe all she wanted was a gay friend to go shopping with. He wouldn't mind that terribly – at the moment any lust he felt was hugely subjugated by worry about how to phrase "Darling, I want you."

"I mean, it's too bad you didn't pick it out yourself. I would have been flattered. It's very attractive."

"It has writing on your bottom."

"What!?"

"It's just right over there," he pointed. "It's an ode to Voldemort in tiny, tiny stitching."

"Professor Snape, I believe you're just using that as an excuse to look at my bottom."

"No. I'm not. It's absolutely there."

"You don't have to come up with an excuse." Hermione's blush, which had been fading slightly, returned to its original scarlet hue. She didn't feel she was quite competent when it came to being a wanton seductress, but she hoped she'd get lots of practice. Or not. It wouldn't be so bad just to have a platonic male friend who sometimes flattered her by staring at her posterior. It could be quite nice, really.

"Perhaps not," said Severus. He tried to smirk in a manner reminiscent of Clark Gable . It made him look like a ferret. Slytherins were forever looking like ferrets at inopportune moments; it was one of the universal pitfalls of the house members.

Hermione couldn't bring herself to say anything, but gazed into his ferret-y eyes adoringly.

"Would you like to go upstairs?" asked Snape.

"Upstairs?" retorted Hermione. "Professor Snape, are you aware that asking me upstairs, into one of the rooms which will likely be a bedroom, has very specific connotations to many minds?"

'So much for subtlety,' thought Snape. "Well, yes. Yes I am."

"Oh, alright," said Hermione. "I was just checking. I wanted to make sure we were both on the same page. No need for sexual harassment issues to enter into this. Although, they do, in a way. It would certainly be frowned upon. But then, so much is frowned upon by bourgeois people that it's probably not worth worrying about."

"Quite," said Snape, as he wondered what he had gotten himself into. "Shall we?" he extended an arm and the couple began to walk up a spiral staircase which lead to Heaven. Upon realizing that staircase would not talk them to the upper floor of the house, but rather to an indefinite point in the sky, they got off it, and proceeded to walk up an entirely different stairway. They were only halfway up it when a song suddenly began to play:

_Never seen you lookin' so lovely as you did tonight_

_Never seen you shine so bright_

_Never saw so many men_

_Ask you if you wanted to dance_

_Lookin' for a little romance_

_Given half the chance_

_I have never seen that dress you're wearing_

_Or the highlights in you hair that catch your eyes_

_I have been blind_

_Lady in Red_

_Is dancing with me_

Severus gazed deeply into Hermione's eyes. Hermione gazed back at him. It would have been the moment when Voldemort would have told them both to tango, right there, on the stairs without any hint of sufficient leg room.

"I really hate this song," said Hermione.

"I know. It's too cliché for words," replied Severus. "Rather than stopping for the obligatory pulse pounding, heart throbbing dance, let's go upstairs."

"That sounds like an excellent idea," replied Hermione, whose pulse was already pounding without the dance.

A/N: Ourobouros has been nominated for a laughter award at the Multifaceted Harry Potter Fanfiction awards page which can be found here: http:magical-worlds.us/multifaceted/nominees.htm should anyone feel compelled to cast their vote for Ourobouros. Which, needless to say, would make me dance with joy.


	18. TeH Hot SEXXORS 11!

They stepped into a room which was very much the way the Room of Requirement might be if the Room of Requirement could ever be used for sexual escapades – which, of course, it could not. Hogwarts was very much geared towards preventing students from having sex, and therefore, the room was not expected to regard two lustful teenagers in search of a trysting spot a real "requirement." But _had _it been able to transform into a trysting spot, it would have looked very much like Voldemort's guest bedroom – which was quite nice indeed.

Hermione felt that it had at least somewhat aroused Professor Snape. He wrapped his arms around Hermione's waist – tightly. So tightly, in fact that she could bearly breathe. But she really, really didn't want to say anything because that seemed on par with puncturing a child's balloon with a knitting needle – and Hermione did not regard herself as a puncturer of metaphorical balloons. Meanwhile Severus was grasping her as though he were attempting to perform the Heimlich maneuver.

It wasn't that he necessarily wanted to grasp her in such a way. It was just that, at that moment - with her tender young buttocks pressing against his manhood - a single thought resonated in his mind. And that thought was 'I've forgotten my line.' He had. It was a horrible dilemma. He thought maybe he should improvise.

"I want this," he said.

"My belly?" she replied.

"You, I mean. Dammit, you, that's it, you. Darling, I want you."

"What?"

"I must, I must have you. Or I shall surely die."

"There's really no need to be quite so melodramatic about things."

"Our love is like a wild happy pony on the plains, eating us. I mean our lust, or the hay of our lust. Yes, our love is a pony which eats the hay of our lust."

"Professor Snape, are you sure you're quite able to do this?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you're not talking in a way that indicates you are very focused on the task at hand. I don't know what you're trying to get at. Really, I'd just thought it might be a mutually enjoyable experience if we were to go to bed together."

"That's what I thought, too!"

"So why all the flowery language? I don't like dwelling in the land of the euphemistically indirect."

"I was trying to be charming and romantic. I wanted to sweep you off your feet and show you a certain modicum of affection."

"Oh. In that case, why didn't you just say, 'Hermione, would you like to spend the night?'"

"Well, for one thing, I would never have said Hermione. I would have said, 'Miss Granger would you like to spend the night?' I was, however, dissuaded by Voldemort who felt a different kind of approach needed to be taken. An approach, dare I say it, more tender and romantic in feeling."

"I suppose tender romantic feelings are very indirect then. I don't particularly care for that approach. It seems silly."

"Quite so."

"Mmm."

"Should we get down to things then?" enquired Snape, rolling up the sleeves on his robes with the dedication of a farmer about to plow a field.

Hermione looked flustered for a second. She sat on the side of the bed, rigid and motionless. She too had forgotten her lines. Then suddenly, with a crazed look in her eyes, she flew at him.

"So many buttons!" she exclaimed. She grabbed his robe and ripped it apart with the mighty strength of a Hippogriff, or other, equally strong beast. Buttons flew everywhere, temporarily blinding Professor Snape in the eye.

"What the devil are you doing?" he asked her.

"I was ripping off your robe in an uninhibited display of passion," she replied.

"These were my best robes."

"Oh."

"I'm quite serious Miss Granger, they're my favorite pair. I spent an enormous amount of money on them. Please, don't ever do that again."

"I'm sorry. I'm a bad girl. Do I need to be punished?" she enquired hopefully.

"No, but you'll probably need to pay to have my clothing repaired."

"Oh, I thought maybe you'd want to spank me."

"I would never be that cliché."

"I was kind of counting on it."

"That's peculiar, Miss Granger. It's not something I feel entirely comfortable doing. In fact, I'd feel very uncomfortable doing it as it would remind me of the extreme age difference between the two of us, and that I'm nearly old enough to be your father."

"Only just. And I'm quite sure you could take him on in a fight, if it were ever to come to that. Not that it would. Not that, if he were to find out that a Potion's Professor at boarding school had been bedding his little princess, he would come after you with a shotgun. No, not at all."

"The thought never crossed my mind."

"Good. Then spank my bottom."

"There appears to be a logical gap between those two statements."

"I don't think so."

"Oh. Well."

"Give it a go." She bent over the bed obligingly. Severus lifted his hand, feeling squeamish. He brought his hand down, making a great effort not to think about what he was doing and how uncomfortable he felt. Instead he thought about potion recipes. Then his attention to turned to actual writing. And then he wondered who had been leaving the love letters dripping with funny smelling perfume around his room. Little did he know that that wasn't perfume at all, it was slime. The letters were sent from Trevor the Tapeworm, who had begun creeping out of his jar each night, covering his body with colorful potions ingredients and squirming about in precise, rhythmic motions to form words on discarded pieces of paper. While human/tapeworm relationships may not have always been an easy pairing, it was worth noting that Trevor the Tapeworm would never _ever _have asked Severus Snape to smack his bottom. Because Trevor the Tapeworm did not have one. He was a tapeworm.

"Why are you being so mindless and repetitive about this?"

"What?"

"I thought this was going to be really hot. This isn't hot."

"Hot?"

"You know. Hot. Arousing."

"Ah. Well, I've already voiced my discomfort with the procedure, which may be a factor in the lack of hotness."

"Maybe if you took off your clothes? Or if I took off mine. Or better, if you took off mine for me?"

"I could do that," he tried to sound cavalier about the whole thing. In actuality, it had been some time since he'd removed a woman's clothes, barring that one, drunken encounter with Hooch.

So he approached her with a slight nervousness. It wasn't, after all, as though she were wearing a jumpsuit that could just slide off. There were ribbons involved here. Laces. Intricate laces. Hundreds of them, really. Which, as it turned out, were all very tightly bound and really nearly impossible to undo.

"Here, let me help," said Hermione.

"Absolutely not."

"I really think this would go much better if you could just let me assist."

"I believe I'm quite capable of handling this."

"Fine, then." Hermione realized with a certain blinding flash of insight that she was sulking in the midst of her first sexual encounter. She had never considered the possibility that there would be anything _to _sulk about during sex. She vowed to savor the sensual sensation of Professor Snape removing her dress. And she did so, for approximately the next three minutes, at which point Professor Snape announced,

"Miss Granger, you seem to be stuck." And so she was. The vast majority of the dress seemed caught, half beneath her armpit and half over her collarbone. She was naked at the waist with her entire dress stuck over her head. It was not hot. It wasn't even lukewarm. It was stupid, and chilly. She wished she'd handled it herself, and she wished he hadn't told her she was stuck as though it were her fault. But all she said was, "Umm." It was hard to be too eloquent with a dress stuck over her head.

Finally, with a great wiggling she stood before him, naked and exposed.

Severus moved forward and cupped her breasts. "Beautiful," thought Hermione, "this is the point where he sucks in his breath admiringly and says 'beautiful.'"

"You have nice breasts," said Snape. This somehow seemed breathtakingly less poignant than declaring them to be "beautiful."

"Thanks," replied Hermione. Then she realized she was supposed to have a moment of timid insecurity wherein she revealed that she was young and unsure of her own blossoming sexuality, at which point Snape would gently reassure her. "I mean, I think they're too small."

"Oh," replied Snape, who didn't know the rules and formalities of this exchange, "well, I guess they are kind of petit."

"What?"

"But not necessarily in a negative way, Miss Granger."

"How can that be positive?"

"Women with large breasts remind me of cows."

"That's a horrible indictment of buxom women."

"I didn't actually mean it. I was just trying to remedy the social gaff. Could we talk about this later? I assure you, I really do like your breasts."

"Well, good. Maybe you could undress now?"

"Certainly," replied Snape, pulling his dress robe over his head, to reveal that he was also naked. She stared down at his exposed manhood.

"I know," stated Snape rather smugly, "you've never seen one so large before."

"I've never seen one before, period," replied Hermione before breaking into a fit of giggles. "My God," she exclaimed, "it's the most ridiculous looking thing I've ever seen. Look at how silly it is just waving there."

"I'm glad you're not frightened," declared Snape. Snape was lying. He would have preferred it if she had been frightened. No man particularly liked it when you laughed hysterically at his manhood.

"Is it large?"

"Huge."

"I don't believe you."

"How could you possibly not believe me? Don't I seem like the sort of man who'd have an enormous manhood?"

"Well, I don't have any basis for comparison. Hold on, there's a measuring tape!" Hermione lunged over to the bedside table, and returned with a ruler.

"What _are _you doing, you silly girl?"

"Silly girl! Now see, that's precisely what I meant, Professor Snape. That's what you ought to have said while you were spanking me."

"That hasn't answered my question you… silly girl."

"Ooh! It gives me shivers when you say that. I was going to measure it."

"What?"

"It. You know, _it_."

"Miss Granger, are you aware that this is most unorthodox?"

"Oh, don't be silly. Just lie there for a minute."

"I most certainly will not."

"Please Professor Snape; don't make this more difficult than it needs to be."

"I'm not making this anything more than it needs to be as this is completely unnecessary."

She wrestled him down and proceeded to measure him with a concentration and precision she would usually only exhibit in her class work. Trevor the Tapeworm would never have done that, either.

"Five inches. From what I've heard, that's more or less average. I mean I'm not going to go away horrified, but I really don't think you have any right to advertise it as 'huge.' Especially to young girls who wouldn't know any better."

"Miss Granger, this has been a fiasco. It is decidedly not arousing at all. I'm going to get dressed and leave."

"Oh no, please don't. Come on, I'm sure we can work this out. If you still want to, maybe we could just skip directly to the actual sleeping together part? If you still want to, I mean, I'm not going to pressure you. Although sometimes no means yes. Or so I've read in romance novels. Though I think that technically constitutes rape in real life. But I'm getting away from myself. Professor Snape, do you think we could do it now?"

"That would be fine."

Professor Snape came over to her side of the bed. He stared deeply into her eyes. He lowered his manly, manly torso over her body, whereupon she declared,

"I was just thinking, wouldn't it be great if I were to get pregnant?"

"No. It would not be "great." Or it would only be great if you mean great in the sense that getting Avada Kedavra'ed is "great."

"But you and I would develop a kind of maternal and paternal instinct, and it would be a charming child, most likely a female with curly black hair who would end up in Ravenclaw."

"If you got pregnant, there are potions to remedy that."

"You mean abort it?"

"I wouldn't use that term precisely, but we do have potions to heal broken bones. I know you come from a muggle background but I trust you understood that there would be potions for other unfortunate mishaps. Of course, they're much less pleasant and more emotionally distressing than just using a simpler form of contraceptive, but they are available. If you feel strongly, I suppose we could also consider adoption, but it would be nearly impossible for you to pursue any of your long term goals with a child in tow. You are, after all, seventeen. And using it as a romantic plot device is rather sickening, frankly, Miss Granger. A child is not a nifty handbag, nor is it a kind of glue used to cement couples together."

"Oh," said Hermione, "well in that case, it's a good thing I took elementary precautions and brought contraceptives."

"Good. Because to have done otherwise would have been just breathtakingly idiotic. I mean, what kind of girl really thinks it's charming and delightful to get pregnant at seventeen? I personally, would never have even considered this without protection."

"I think you've made your point Professor Snape."

"I'm glad."

"Can we continue?"

"Umm…"

"Umm?"

"Just give me a moment. The pregnancy talk caused my genitals to shrivel up and retreat into my kidney."

"Literally?"

"No, not literally Miss Granger."

"Is there anything I could do?" She batted her eyelashes provocatively.

"Well perhaps if you…"

"If I…"

"If you were to put it in your mouth."

"Oh. Alright."

She leaned over and proceeded to take it in her mouth and suck on it somewhat gently. It really wasn't nearly as bad as she'd expected. She couldn't see why some women disliked it, until Snape began thrusting away. At which point, she gagged. And involuntarily bit down, slightly. Snape screamed. About an hour later, they had recovered from the mutual trauma enough to give it another go.

In an ideal world, or in a romance novel, their second try would have been perfect. He would have slipped between her legs like butter, and she would have been transported to a nether realm of sexual ecstasy. It didn't work like that, of course. There was a great deal of maneuvering involved for both parties, there was one notable moment when Hermione considered balking on the whole issue. And after it was all over, when Severus curled up against her, she thought what so many recently deflowered young women before her had thought, and shook her head and quietly murmured "that's it? That's what everybody makes such a fuss over?" And she looked down at her red dress lying in a crumpled heap on the floor, and thought solemnly that life wasn't like a romance novel at all. And at that moment, Snape rolled over blearily and remarked to her, "I think you're wonderful, Miss Granger." And she decided that even if her life wasn't a romance novel, and even if sex was amazingly anticlimactic, things weren't really so bad after all.

Meanwhile, in another bedroom down the hall, Voldemort gently stroked Bellatrix's waist and sighed, "Darling, darling, I want you." And Bellatrix replied, "Oh yes, darling, yes!" Because for some people, life really is a romance novel. After all, when you go through life as a disfigured snake-man and a mentally unstable murderess, the universe is required to demonstrate occasional tokens of mercy.


	19. Days of Corpses and Roses

When Hermione woke up at seven o'clock the next morning, Severus was already gone. Hermione felt shocked, horrified, and maybe a little jealous. A multitudinous array of questions occurred to her. Had she been that bad? How bad was biting a man's penis, really? Had he finally noticed that tapeworm lusting after him? Was she, in fact, bad enough to cause a man to have an interspecies affair with an intestinal parasite? She took a spare robe and slinked into it, before creeping quietly down the stairs, only to be confronted by a massive flood of yellow rose petals. Intermixed among the petals were the corpses of the wizards and witches who had not been canny enough to avoid the fallout. Hermione had to admit, their decaying bodies added a spot of color to the otherwise monochromatic yellow petals. And amidst it all, on the highest mound of petals, sat Voldemort and Bellatrix, still in their pajamas.

"You're up early," Hermione yawned.

"Actually," replied Voldemort, "we haven't been to bed yet."

"Not to sleep, anyway," giggled Bellatrix, tickling Voldemort's grotesquely protruding ribcage.

A week ago, Hermione would have envied them, thinking they were doing something earth shattering. Now, she could only admire their fortitude.

"You look radiant," cooed Bellatrix.

"I don't feel radiant," replied Hermione, "I feel sore."

"Oh, well, that often happens after the first time," replied Voldemort. "On the plus side, it means lots of long, meaningful romantic baths ensue."

"Men can be a bit rough," noted Bellatrix, "but you'll get to enjoy it."

"No," stated Hermione, "I don't mean sore like that. I'm just not used to sleeping with other people, and he takes up three fourths of the bed. I woke up in the middle of the night and just saw this huge yawning horizon over his side, while I was pressed up against the wall. It wasn't fun at all, and now my back has gone out."

"Ugh," replied Voldemort.

"Yes, well, we bear on, boats against the current and all that," noted Hermione. "What are you two doing this morning?"

"The same thing we do every morning!" replied Bellatrix.

"Try to take over the world?" suggested Hermione.

"Nonsense," retorted Voldemort, "don't be trite. We eat lox and bagels. They're delicious. Would you like some?"

"I really don't seem to have much of an appetite."

"Dear me," said Bellatrix, "was it as bad as all that?"

Hermione snuffled miserably.

"The first time is always the worst," Bellatrix responded, "over inflated expectations."

"Bella," intoned Voldemort beseechingly, his ruby red eyes radiating longing for validation of his skills as a lover. Had Voldemort not been quite so insecure, had Albus Dumbledore ever offered _him _a lemon drop, it's quite likely that the Wizarding World would never have found itself in such a strange predicament.

"Oh, heavens, I didn't mean you," said Bellatrix, "of course I never meant you. You're a God among men."

Voldemort smiled contentedly, and wiped some cream cheese off his chin.

"Well, this will cheer you up, anyway," noted Voldemort.

"What will?"

"The newspaper, silly," replied Bellatrix, passing the paper over to her. Across the front age it read "SHAGWARTS, Albus/Bones: The sexual abuse scandal of the century."

Hermione nibbled on a bit of bagel before remarking, "It really ought to be 'Snogwarts,' you know, if they want to give it a silly name. That would at least encompass a rhyming element."

"But there not just snogging," stated Voldemort, "it's much, much more depraved than that."

"So Rita Skeeter informs me," noted Hermione avidly skimming the article. "My word, he had her perform sexual acts on a goat? I didn't know that."

"What can you expect? It runs in the family," replied Voldemort.

"Oh, it's credited to Binns. I think he's just making things up to deflect his own part in the scandal so it doesn't reflect badly on the Spiritual division of the Ministry. They really can't afford more bad press, what with restless spirits like Peeves and the Bloody Baron around."

"Aren't we being just a little willfully naïve?" asked Voldemort. "I mean, really, Hermione, we just have to accept that every member of the family has a thing for goats. It's not so terrible. I hear a muggle playwright named Edward Albee seems to think it's alright, and if it's good enough for Muggle playwrights it's good enough for me."

"I still don't believe it," said Hermione, "I mean, did Draco see any goat artifacts in her room? Hay? Cheese? Locks of white hair? Actually I suppose it's just as possible that any locks of white hair came from Dumbledore, but still, I think there would be traces of that sort of thing."

"I don't think anyone in this room is qualified to speak about it. We hardly have sex lives that are that interesting. Therefore, we are allowed to be outraged Puritans!" squealed a delighted Voldemort.

"Shame on them all," Voldemort continued, "shame, shame, shame."

"Really, that absolute hussy!" exclaimed Bellatrix, "and him, an educator and old enough to be her father!"

"Umm," replied Hermione staring up at her in a somewhat injured fashion

"Oh, well of course it's different with you and Severus," replied Bellatrix, "I mean, you two are… well, you're much more attractive and interesting than Susan and Albus."

"Unattractive dull people should die the way the laws of natural selection intended them to," declared Voldemort. "In fact," he continued, "I might make that a sort of motto, you know. Would you go to war for that? If we had banners that said 'Death to all ignorant, dirty, ugly people?'"

"It would be like the antithesis of the French Revolution," murmured Hermione, "it gives me shivers all over."

"I think we should attempt to remember the questionable hygienic practices of certain Death-eaters," noted Bellatrix.

"Didn't we kill them yesterday night when we dropped two tons of rose petals on them?"

"Not quite. Rose petals are surprisingly ineffective as a battle weapon. In fact, I'd go so far as to say they are wholly and horribly useless. Altogether, I think we only killed about ten. And most of those died because they tripped on the petals and knocked their heads on the tiles."

"So I suppose we can't use that to take over Hogwarts, then."

"No," said Bellatrix.

"Could we do it just for fun? Because it would look interesting, I think. Rather colorful, and all that, you know," suggested Voldemort.

"No," replied Bellatrix firmly, "we don't have funding to spend on that kind of frivolous thing."

"What if we got the Goblins to help us?"

"If you want," Bellatrix said, "we could start sending them yellow rosebushes. They would assume it was a charming gift, and not a horrible portender of their imminent doom."

"Ha!" exclaimed Voldemort, "that's so devious even I couldn't come up with it! And when we take over, the landscaping will already be beautiful. Though I must say, I think anything would be better than that most unsightly whomping willow. I'm all for brute violence, but it really must be attempted with a certain modicum of flair."

"What if," Bellatrix suggested, licking her lips with anticipation, "we put ornaments on the whomping willow? You know little sparkly baubles so that it would be all cheerful, and yet, at the same time debauched!"

"Wouldn't it whomp the baubles off itself?" queried Hermione, still immersed in her Daily Prophet, which had informed her that, "anyone would twinkle if they had women performing sex with goats." Hermione couldn't figure out whether that sentence was intended to strip away the innocuous veneer of Dumbledore's twinkling eyes, or whether it was a horrible suggestion which implied that the long elusive and entirely desirable twinkle could be easily achieved if only men would force women to have sex with goats. Hermione foretold the situation all too well. That night the wives of Wizarding farmers all across the countryside would be asked, rather suggestively by their husbands, whether they had ever felt any twinge of desire towards the rams in the back yard. The wives, almost universally, would decline, and lock their husbands out of the bedroom.

"I don't know," said Bellatrix, "but isn't it something that ought to be tried?"

"Debatably so," replied Hermione, "buy cheap ornaments, though."

"My you _are _bitter this morning," noted Voldemort. "I've never heard anyone not enthuse over tree ornaments before! In fact, I didn't even think it was possible. It makes me sad that it's possible." Voldemort's face crinkled with sadness. Bellatrix tickled his belly, at which point he laughed happily again.

"I'm sorry for being so cranky," sighed Hermione. "I suppose I'm just not feeling as well as I should this morning. You know, Professor Snape was even gone by the time I woke up. I didn't think I was that bad. Do you know how horrible that feels, waking up and finding out that the man you spent the night with isn't even there?"

Trevor the Tapeworm knew that feeling all too well. Every morning he had become used to watching Professor Snape rise out of his bed. He would watch him perform his morning ablutions – which were fairly brief as Professor Snape neither brushed his hair nor cleaned his teeth. Professor Snape believed those kinds of ablutions were for sissy men. Really, all Professor Snape did was stand in front of a mirror and quirk an eyebrow up at himself. Trevor lived for that moment. And today, when Trevor woke, Professor Snape was not there. Trevor gurgled. And it was a gurgle that encompassed all the swear words that Trevor would have liked to shout, if only he knew them. But he did not know them. Additionally, being an intestinal parasite who lived in a glass tank filled with formaldehyde, Trevor would never be able to shout them, even if he did know them. He could only gurgle, but in that gurgle there was all the sadness and neglect in the world.

"I'm so sorry," mewed Bellatrix sympathetically.

Voldemort looked around the room frantically. Situations like this made Voldemort twitchy. Usually when he felt twitchy, he killed someone. Or he had Bellatrix do it. But he didn't feel he could kill Hermione. He liked Hermione. Therefore, he knew he had to find some alternative method of making the twitchy feeling go away. He turned his back to the women, and buried both his hands into the mound of petals interspersed with dead bodies. Then he turned back.

"Here, Hermione," he said brightly, "I have something for you that will make you feel happy again!" He handed her a fistful of decaying petals.

"Rose petals with… corpse hair," nodded Hermione, "how… thoughtful."

"That was nice of you," said Bellatrix.

"Well, I rather thought so," replied Voldemort.

Both Bellatrix and Voldemort went back to eating their lox and bagels cheerfully. Hermione began to sob.

"What's wrong?" asked Bellatrix

"Was something amiss with the petals?" enquired Voldemort.

"I bet it was the corpse hair that set her off," sighed Bellatrix, "some women don't go for that sort of thing. There's no accounting for taste."

"No," whimpered Hermione, "it's just that it's the morning after I was deflowered. I'm supposed to be spending it languorously lying about in bed being fed strawberries and cream by my paramour. I'm not supposed to be spending it with two psychotic aspiring world dictators who try to cheer me up by giving me flowers and the remnants of dead people. No offense intended, naturally."

"You really think of me as psychotic," murmured Voldemort, "really?"

"Only a little," said Hermione, a bit chagrined. She liked Voldemort. She thought he was a lovely man, and instantly felt guilty about suggesting that he was a psychopath.

"My word," continued Voldemort, "psychotic? Most people just think I'm horribly inept! This is amazing! I feel like a qualified villain, now! Bella, did you hear that? Hermione thinks we're psychopaths. I mean, I know most of the Wizarding World does, but to hear it from someone who sees our blunders first hand, well, it really makes me feel a bit warm and fuzzy on the inside, you know. Thank you, Miss Granger. I think you too have the makings of a truly promising psychotic."

"I think everyone has the makings of a psychotic," declared Bellatrix, "it's more repressed for some people than others, but it's always there."

"Bella, your girlish optimism about people makes me want to cuddle you!" exclaimed Voldemort, who began cuddling her profusely. Bellatrix giggled, and wriggled away from his tickling talons. It was at that moment Severus entered wearing a terrycloth bathrobe in a shade of yellow which would have looked lovely on Voldemort, but unfortunately caused Severus to look as though he was experiencing a bad bout of jaundice.

"Well, well," he said, clicking his tongue at Bellatrix and Voldemort, "and how is Rudolphus this morning, Bellatrix?"

For a moment, Bellatrix felt her hand twitching in the involuntary way it twitched when she was about to cast a killing curse. Then she breathed deeply and steadied herself, thinking that Snape was probably just bitter because he had proven himself to be totally inept in bed. Besides, she didn't have time to feel guilt. She was still powerful and in her prime, and she loved and was loved in return by the most physically repulsive and adorable psychotic in the Wizarding World. It almost made her feel like giving up the whole murderess business and opening a pastry shop.

"Oh, don't be so gloomy old boy," said Voldemort, "we've won! Well, almost won, anyway. The article detailing the Albus/Bones scandal ran today. Front page too, nice big blocks of text."

Severus raised his eyebrows momentarily, and then allowed his face to fall as he caught sight of Miss Granger.

"Where were you?" asked Hermione, her voice tinted with rage.

"I was taking a bath, Miss Granger, I'm a bit sore. You have a most unfortunate tendency to kick people in your sleep. I had also considered that a display of hygiene might convey my respect for you. I had intended to return. Don't you know that you're supposed to sleep until noon, in a kind of languorous oversexed haze?"

"Obviously, no one bothered to tell me that."

"Do I seem like the kind of man who would run away in the morning?"

"You seem like the kind of man who once told me he saw no difference after my teeth were hexed," pouted Hermione.

"Big teeth are sexy. I was so overwhelmed by your beauty at the time that I'm amazed I could formulate a response at all." Severus, rather wisely, had been reading the _Super-Villain's Guide to Fun and Romance _in the bath. It was a clever manuscript written by Voldemort a few years ago, back in the days when he was only a Super-Villain and not yet a Dark Lord.

"Oh," giggled Hermione, "I really had no idea, Professor Snape. So then you weren't disappointed…"

"By that? I hear the first time is always the worst." Bellatrix nodded sagely. She had contributed her share of adages to _The Super-Villains Guide to Fun and Romance._

"I'm glad," murmured Hermione, "I had been so worried."

"Well, Miss Granger if it's troubling you, I think there's only one thing to be done."

"What's that?"

"Work on it again, and again, until we get it right. Shall we begin right now?"

"I think that would be an excellent idea." And they went off to the guest bedroom, hand in hand, leaving the corpses and roses behind them.


	20. Trevor is not Esme

Chaos was raging at Hogwarts – not that anyone was calling it Hogwarts anymore. The media world had picked up and latched onto Shagwarts, the way a parasite might latch onto an intestine. People did find, however, that often when they attempted to be hip by referring to it as such to their less cosmopolitan friends, the friends assumed that they had contracted some sort of venereal disease. Journalists were correspondingly confused, forgot that they originated the term, and began to run articles about how there had been so much sex at Hogwarts that students had picked up a horribly and deadly STD called Shagwarts.

As Hermione and Severus slipped in discretely, they passed Binns, who had recently been suggested to have had inappropriate conduct towards students (a true, but totally meaningless charge, as even McGonagall had been rumored to have behaved inappropriately towards students) desperately trying to avert attention from himself by talking about how sometimes the fat lady got drunk, and pranced naked from painting to painting. It was suggested that she used to model for Titian. McGonagall had tried to do much the same thing by remarking that a student used to caper through the halls in the nude. However, as the student in question's first name was Mary, and her last name was Sue, no one was particularly shocked by her behavior.

Severus and Hermione, true to Rita Skeeter's word, had both been made out to be paragons of virtue, and Susan's tape seemed to be safely in Draco's hands.

Upon entering his chambers, Severus rushed over to the jar of formaldehyde and tapeworm on his desk. "Hello, Trevor," he said politely, for he did not believe in patronizing Trevor, as Trevor had lived inside his body long enough for Severus to feel he was extension of his own personality. "How have you been? I've brought back Hermione, you see."

'I hate you, you callous bastard. How dare you bring that slattern into our home?' Trevor thought, as he gurgled mournfully. The giant squid loved him truly, tenderly and devotedly (because everyone is the love of someone's life, even if they are a tapeworm.) Why, oh why, did Trevor seem condemned to be infatuated only with Byronic heroes?

"Don't you ever consider getting a more normal pet?" enquired Hermione, "I mean really, Professor Snape, an intestinal parasite is most unusual. You know, most people have pets that can do something. Fetch a ball, or roller skate, or something like that."

"Trevor can do things. I have a deep faith that inside the confines of that jar, Trevor contemplates the poetry of William Blake."

In fact, Trevor did not contemplate such things. He was illiterate; Severus had neglected to teach him how to read.

"That may be so," remarked Hermione, gnawing her lip, "but still, isn't he a little... well… creepy?"

'Maybe you're a little creepy, wench!' thought Trevor, with great vehemence.

Hermione knew full well, by the glint in Trevor's nonexistent eye when he wiggled in her general direction, that Trevor was in love with Professor Snape. She was a clever girl that way, and Hagrid had taught her well. She only worried about how deep that love ran. More to the point, she worried about him breaking out of his jar and killing her in her sleep. . While such a feat would be quite impressive, without opposable thumbs – or, hands – or, indeed, limbs of any kind , Hermione she would be able to admire his ingenuity. Her inability might have had something to do with the fact that she would be dead.

"I mean," Hermione continued, "you remember when I talked to you about that feather boa that stops Nietzschean overtoned weirdly feminist message affirming suicides? I'm sure I could dredge one of those up for you."

"Do I really seem like the sort of man who would keep a fuzzy feather boa?"

"Well, I suppose you could be. I don't really know that feather boa keepers are a specific type of people."

"Quite frankly, Miss Granger, I do. And they are not nearly the throbbing specimen of manhood that I am. Manly men keep tapeworms," declared Severus.

"They do?" pondered Hermione incredulously.

"Certainly, Miss Granger. The presence of a tapeworm allows us to hone our virile instincts."

"Well, I do think you're rather virile," said Hermione.

"I was great, wasn't I?" declared Severus, "a sex God, really, when you get right down to it."

"Umm…" replied Hermione.

"Do you think I should consider becoming a gigolo?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Hermione choked down the overwhelming urge to tell him that gigolos tended to be attractive in orthodox ways. Middle aged women looking for a young, sexy piece of meat tended to be disappointed when a man with dubious hygiene arrived at their door, offering them a night of animalistic passion. They tended to close the door, in fact, preferring to do their crossword puzzles and read their romance novels. Nobody wanted to risk getting odd sexually transmitted diseases from a man who hadn't brushed his teeth. It simply didn't seem worth it. Hermione also felt that most gigolos had to be people people. This is to say, the sort of person who didn't make people cry on a routine basis. She smiled up at him sweetly and replied,

"Because you're seeing me. And I don't want to share you, you sexy beast."

Severus puffed up perceptibly within his robes. In a sense, it reminded Hermione of a puffer fish she had once seen vacationing with her family. Puffer fish are not powerful or sensual animals, and it confirmed her suspicion that her lover was a notch short of gigolo material.

"Do you want to do it up against the dungeon wall?" asked Severus.

"Oh," said Hermione, "that seems rather difficult. I mean, I think it would be terribly adventurous, but not all that comfortable."

"To be honest, it would also put a terrible strain on my back," noted Severus, "I really do have a fairly bad back. It goes out a good deal, and I think attempting to support your weight in that position would be trying for it."

"Do you mean to say I'm overweight?" Hermione had genuinely believed that Severus saw her body as more or less perfect. It was very nicely shaped, really, or at least she liked to think so.

"Not at all. I think you're a perfectly normal weight for your height. You're very healthy."

"Perfectly normal weight?" she asked, shocked, "_healthy?"_

"What the devil is the matter with being healthy?"

"Well, Professor Snape, no woman wants to look healthy. We want to look emaciated. Ethiopian! Now _that_ would be a compliment."

"That would be appalling. And I doubt it would make it any easier to defile you against a dungeon wall. Would you at least agree with me that the dungeon wall dynamics would be exceedingly difficult?"

"I suppose so. I'm not too terribly agile. I really don't think either one of us would be satisfied," Hermione noted.

"Quite right, I think, Miss Granger. Perhaps we could do it in the bed, later."

"Oh dear," Hermione remarked, "You don't think we're getting complacent about things, do you? _Playwitch_ has advice for me about spicing thing up once the sex begins to get stale."

"But Miss Granger, we've only had sex twice."

"Exactly! How dreadful that the spark has gone out of our physical passion so quickly!"

"I hardly think…"

"Oh my Goodness, it has, hasn't it? Our spark is sputtering, after only flaring up brilliantly once! And quite frankly, it was only semi-brilliant! And you think I'm fat. What are we doing, Professor Snape?"

"I never said you were fat…"

"You said I was looking healthy. Healthy means fat! It's like telling someone they look tired, when you really mean that they look God-awful."

"When I tell people they look tired, I generally mean that they look tired. Generally, when they look God-awful I tell them they are a disgusting specimen of humanity, and that they should sit next to me with their back turned so that I don't have to gaze upon their grotesque form."

"That's a little harsh."

"Honesty usually is. I am a man of candor, Miss Granger; if I thought you looked fat I would have no compunction about telling you such."

"Is that supposed to be reassuring?"

"As I have said, it is candor."

"Do you ever think about perhaps doing that a bit less?"

"Being candid?"

"You're candid to the point of insulting."

Severus Snape desperately wondered how a pleasant conversation about ravishing an underage schoolgirl up against a dungeon wall had devolved into this. This wasn't sexy. This didn't make him feel like a gigolo, and lately he'd been reading an inordinate amount of gigolo stories, which he credited to Miss Granger's bad influence. It was she, after all, who had started him reading those inane romances! He cursed her for it. Now he had an overactive libido, and Miss Granger showed no signs of letting him use her as a receptacle for his lust. If he had truly been as candid as he claimed to be, he would have remarked, "Be quiet girl, stand over there, I wish you to be my lust receptacle." But all he said was:

"I am not."

"You make people cry."

"People often seem unable to handle bitter truths that they must resolve themselves to eventually. Like you, for instance."

"Pardon me?"

"You can't handle my love for Trevor."

"What?"

"He's my pet, and you want to get rid of him."

"He's a tapeworm preserved in a jar. If I told you that I kept, I don't know, pubic lice in a box, what would you think of me?"

"That you respected the bond you had shared with a creature that lived on you."

"A disgusting creature! A creature I had a parasitic relationship with!"

Trevor heard her words through the glass and he felt disgusting. It wasn't his fault he survived best in the cushy, womblike environment that is the human intestinal tract. Trevor wept tiny formaldehyde tears. He curled up like a comma and wished that mean, cruel Miss Granger would go away. Tapeworms have deep feelings of inadequacy to begin with, and Hermione only reinforced them. He would have contemplated suicide, if he had any idea at all how to kill himself. He thought it would be really difficult. If he could survive in a jar of formaldehyde he imagined he could survive pretty much anything.

"Just because you personally hate him…"

"I didn't say that."

"Oh, Miss Granger, just admit it. You hate Trevor!"

"I don't hate him!"

Trevor, meanwhile, actually did hate Miss Granger. A lot. He leaned back in his jar and tried to figure out how his favorite philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche, would have handled this situation. Trevor had felt a special connection ever since reading one of Nietzsche's works and seeing, in amidst a paragraph about the nature of goodness, a line which ran, "beware, the ice worms come at night." Many scholars took this line as indicative of Nietzsche's descent into madness. Trevor didn't, though. Trevor knew just what it meant. It meant he had to kill Miss Granger in her sleep. At night. And he had to be stealthy, stealthy as an ice worm.

"It's fine, I can deal with it. You hate my pets. That's all right."

"I do not hate your pet."

"I can cope with it Miss Granger, I am not a "love me, love my tapeworm" sort of man."

"Look, I can't interact with Trevor. It's not as though he were a puppy and I could prove my love by playing fetch with him."

"Some people do not have puppies. Some people really dislike them."

"Fine, but the point remains. You can't interact too much with a tapeworm."

"You could tickle him."

"Eew."

"See, that's the kind of bourgeois, mundane attitude I'm describing, Miss Granger. You're not even willing to test your boundaries in the slightest."

"I'm willing to test my boundaries, but tickling a tapeworm?"

"Well, if you don't have any feeling of curiosity, I suppose it is not my place to force you."

"Fine. Do I just..."

"Just put your finger in the jar. He should wrap his little body around it adorably."

Hermione dropped her fingers tentatively in the jar. Trevor lunged, and attempted to bite her hand off. He managed to latch onto her baby finger, and gummed on it frantically with his tiny tapeworm mouth. Hermione squealed, not so much because of the pain but because an attempt was so clearly being made to gnaw off her extremities. Finally, she yanked him off and threw him cursing his angry tapeworm oaths back into his jar.

"I am never touching that evil little creature again!" declared Hermione.

"I'm sorry. I assure you, I really had no idea."

"Surely you've noticed he's in love with you!"

'Yes,' Trevor willed them to understand, 'Oh, all the parasites in Heaven, yes! Yes!"

"That's absurd, Miss Granger."

"It most certainly is not. I've been observing him, and I'm quite sure he's in love with you."

"He is a tapeworm. Tapeworms don't feel love."

"Well now I think _you're _the one adopting a bourgeois attitude, Professor Snape."

"I'm simply pointing out that…"

While Severus and Hermione were debating, Trevor curled his weirdly distended body into the shape of a heart. It was incredibly painful, but he thought it was the only way he could prove his love. If Severus would only say he loved him in return, he would be willing to go around shaped like a heart forever and ever.

Hermione pointed to Trevor's jar. Trevor wished he could move closer to he could see Severus's reaction, but he was afraid that any movement on his part would destroy the heart shaped position.

"Oh," said Severus.

Trevor noted with dismay that this didn't sound like a happy 'oh.' Nor did it sound like an I-shan't-be-needing-you-now-that-I-have-a-tapeworm-to-love-me oh. If he had been honest with himself, he would have admitted that it sounded like an oh-dear oh. But he couldn't bring himself to believe it, not just then. He really did believe there could be a future for him and Severus. Or if not a future, they could at least go back to the way it was, before that Miss Granger came on the scene, when it was only himself and Severus, and occasionally Voldemort in the ventilation duct. And the intrusion of Voldemort he hadn't minded so much, as they looked so similar that Trevor sometimes harbored the notion that they might be from the same species. Now, it seemed to Trevor, Professor Snape would spend more and more nights away with Miss Granger, and he would be left all alone. He didn't want to be all alone. Trevor felt very sorry for himself.

"If you'll excuse me, Miss Granger, I'm afraid Trevor and I may need a few moments in private," said Snape.

"I'm sorry," mouthed Hermione. She felt awful. That poor tapeworm with that horrible case of unrequited love!

"It's alright," Severus said, and nodded solemnly.

"I'll come to love it," said Hermione, "really, I will."

"I'm sure Trevor will appreciate that. But at the moment, I think we really do need some time alone."

Hermione left, quietly. Severus knelt down, and dipped his index finger into the jar. Trevor curled about it lovingly. "Now, Trevor," Professor Snape began soothingly, "I want you to understand that it's not you, it's me…"

A/N: Ourobouros did win the award for best humor fic. To all those who voted, you get my undying love as well as – depending upon your preference – yellow roses or a tapeworm of your very own.


	21. Come to Order

Voldemort and Bellatrix were sitting in a tree. They were not K-I-S-S-I-N-G (they were much too dark and debauched for that) but an impartial viewer who knew nothing of their darkness and debauchery might have said they were cuddling. Voldemort and Bellatrix preferred to think of it as exchanging mad, passionate embraces. They certainly would have been kissing, but their position in the tree made it seem too precarious. Especially as that tree was he Whomping Willow, which despite swinging them about wildly, offered them a wonderful overhead view of the madness raging at Hogwarts. Bellatrix tried to keep focused on the particular to-ings and fro-ings of various professors, but she quickly became distracted by the leafy foliage, which made her think of her husband, who was off pursuing kappas in a place where there were no kappas. The thought filled her with a brief pang of sadness, but she consoled herself with the notion that he might very well be dead, and if not, she could probably kill him herself. Cuddling Voldemort was not a habit Bellatrix intended to give up for any old husband. Then Voldemort extended his hand to caress her belly - ostensibly because the Whomping Willow had begun trying to stab her in the stomach, but Bellatrix knew better – and she gazed into the tunnels of his lava-like eyes, and thought of nothing at all.

Voldemort, meanwhile, was entirely focused. Unfortunately, he was focused on shrubberies. He thought that, when he took over Hogwarts, he would plant shrubberies everywhere. And he would definitely put some bells and baubles on this Whomping Willow, which he hoped to rename 'The El Elegance Elegante and Bellatrix Kissing Tree." The thought of decorating foliage made Voldemort so happy he could have danced on the tree branches.

Meanwhile, Snape was in a corridor, trying to convince Hermione that his tapeworm meant – not exactly nothing to him – but considerably less than her. Hermione replied that he was probably only saying that because they were of the same species, an accusation which Snape denied, promising that if she were to become a tapeworm, he would still feel the same towards her.

Suffice to say, the minions of darkness and evil were much too distracted by hearts and flowers to stage any worthwhile overthrow of Hogwarts. Which was a pity, because it would have been an ideal time to do so.

As it was, however, the interlude meant that the forces of light and goodness had time to regroup. All except Ron, of course. Ron was eating pasties, as seemed to be his sole function whenever the forces of goodness had to regroup. The followers of goodness had recently decided that as all Ron ever seemed to do was eat food, he could accomplish his mission more effectively at the pastry shop down the street. So Harry, Professor Dumbledore, and Luna Lovegood had all gathered within Dumbledore's quarters.

Dumbledore began by giving a long and moving speech about preservation of tradition, which was entirely directed to the Wisteria plant on the windowsill over Harry's head.

"Excuse me," said Harry, "but is there a particular reason you're staring at the flowerpot over my head?"

"Reasons can be particular, my boy," replied Dumbledore.

"So can flying Thestrals," noted Luna.

"That doesn't make sense," noted Harry.

"I think if you think long and hard enough about it, you'll find that it does. Lemon drop?"

"No. Is it because you see Voldemort in my eyes?"

"That, or I might just be playing sick mind games to make you feel enormously insecure. Do bear in mind that I'm not altogether stable. If I were, I'd probably acknowledge that I am the only Wizard powerful enough to take on Voldemort, and not send a pre-teen to deal with him every single year. I'd say it's up in the air, at the moment. Or perhaps I'm trying to remember whether that's the plant Aberforth cast improper charms upon."

"I think I see signs of it having had improper charms cast upon it. Such as the fact that it's tap dancing," noted Luna.

This would have been an excellent sign of improper charms having been cast upon the plant, had the plant actually been tap dancing. It was not. It was remaining at rest in its pot, as wisteria plants are wont to do. Luna was no more stable than Dumbledore.

Harry felt a curious shiver tingling up and down his spine. His pupils dilated. His mouth dropped open. He couldn't stop himself, he shouted, "YOU MUST SPEAK TO ME WITH SOME DEGREE OF SENSE! HOGWARTS IS IN DANGER! DID YOU HEAR ME? I SAID, HOGWARTS IS IN DANGER!"

"I heard you," replied Luna, "but why are you screaming statements that could be uttered in a perfectly normal tone of voice? It's not as though we're going to take issue with them. Obviously Hogwarts is in danger. And the plants are tap dancing."

The plant continued not to tap dance. Harry gazed over at it, and then back at Luna with a worried expression, but figured now wasn't the time to alienate anyone from the Axis of Righteousness.

"I'm sorry," replied Harry meekly, "I have Caps Lock rage. Sometimes, for no apparent reason, I begin shouting in such a way that it can take up whole paragraphs. I suspect it to be the work of Voldemort."

"Shouldn't we be calling him El Elegance Elegante?" pondered Dumbledore.

"I suspect it to be the work of Voldemort's yapping gnomes from Hell," replied Luna.

The other two laughed at how absurdly whimsical Luna was. Little did they know, Voldemort actually was in contact with a yapping gnome from Hell. His name was Bob. He smoked cigars, wore a pinstripe suit, and spread Caps Lock Rage with a tap of his tiny gnomish pick-axe. On his days off, Bob liked to yodel on top of a toadstool and give lectures on how gnomes needed more rights. The threat he posed to the social system, as well as his incessant yodeling, caused many to refer to him as a Yap Gnome from Hell.

"Lets not concern ourselves with that right now," said Harry, while he wondered whether his Vicodin was beginning to wear off, "let's just establish a plan to defend Hogwarts."

"I think I should eat lemon drops," replied Dumbledore.

"Sorry," said Harry, "I think I must have misheard you."

"I said," Dumbledore enunciated clearly, "I. Should. Eat. Lemon. Drops."

"Is that a code?" asked Harry.

"I think people need to feel that everything is just as it was," noted Dumbledore.

"But Voldemort likes lemon drops," declared Luna, "seeing you eat them will only inspire him to attack and kill us all, if only so that he can have your lemon drops for himself."

Luna was being absurd again – Voldemort always carried his own bag of lemon drops. In fact, at that very moment, he and Bellatrix were eating them together, while they attempted to affix Bellatrix's sparkly earrings to the Whomping Willow's branches in the manner of Christmas ornaments. All was as it should be in Voldemort's life, and he wasn't the kind of snake-man to covet anything as unnecessary as lemon-drops.

"Well then," sighed Dumbledore, "I suppose we'll just do what we do every single year."

"Which is?" asked Harry.

"Minerva and I will threaten to close down Hogwarts, despite its being one of the few true sanctuaries in the Wizarding World, and then we'll sit back and wait until you handle it. Go with what works, I say."

"But I can't do that this year."

"Why ever not?"

Harry didn't want to admit that he no longer felt capable of tying his own shoelaces without some of Hermione's Vicodin. "Because I'm too filled with teenage angst," he grumbled, "besides, I'm tired of being your little laughing Marionette."

"My little laughing what?" asked Dumbledore – he wished he had heard that when he was still having an affair with Susan. It was the kind of term of endearment she would have loved.

"Never mind," sighed Harry.

It was at that moment that the door of Dumbledore's study opened ever so slightly. There, on the threshold, stood the figure out of Voldemort's nightmares. It was Narcissa Lestrange, radiating all the pallor and gravitas of someone who has just emerged from crying in another room.

"Hello," murmured Narcissa, smoothing her perfect blonde hair.

"Umm," said Harry.

"Why are you…" wondered Luna.

"Lemon drop?" asked Dumbledore.

"Are you just totally oblivious?" asked Harry.

"Who, me?" replied Luna, "Well, I suppose some have said so, but I also have many charming characteristics. And absolutely fabulous headwear."

"I've heard of it," noted Narcissa, nodding, "It's said not to be beautiful – quite – but more or less sublime. One's sense of the aesthetic demands certain oddities. I'm sure it would not make me quite want to die."

"High praise from you indeed," replied Dumbledore sucking a lemon drop. Narcissa grimaced. Her sense of the aesthetic didn't allow for teeth stained yellow from too many lemon drops. She thought about running away right then, but decided that she would hold her ground in her exquisite little slippers. She did try to keep in mind that Dumbledore wasn't quite as unattractive as Voldemort, he seemed at least humanoid, but he was no Gilderoy Lockheart. She wondered if, as the side of evil was composed of equal parts extremely beautiful and extremely ugly people, it was balanced by the side of good, whose participants were all rather mediocre looking. If she were honest with herself, she'd know that she'd rather be surrounded by extremes (even extreme ugliness could make her feel something, which was far better than feeling nothing at all) but she was far too tired of the dark side's antics to assess her situation with any modicum of honesty.

"Oh, very well, I suppose we'll get down to business then. Why do you want to join us?" enquired Dumbledore.

"Because I can't bear the thought of my son going over to the side of evil," wailed Narcissa. This wasn't true at all. She didn't care what Draco did so long as he did it with immaculately coifed hair. But she was frankly getting sick and tired of being crushed under falling rose petals. It's was almost impossible to be lyrical and poignant under that many rose petals.

"How do we know you're not lying to us?" demanded Harry.

"I'm not going to wheedle with you to let me help you. However, I think you should bear in mind that, contrary to popular belief, _I am the only one Voldemort ever feared_."

"I thought you were the only one Voldemort ever feared," Harry said to Dumbledore.

"Well, we're certainly not friendly," sighed Dumbledore.

"He's only miffed at you for stealing his lemon-drop bit," sighed Narcissa with derision. "I, on the other hand, can make him flee in terror. He's unable to withstand the awesome power of my tears – they are as bitter as my countenance is lovely."

Dumbledore knew it was true. He had hoped no one would ever find out, but he remembered Narcissa reducing Voldemort to tears when she was only a student. Obviously, that was back when his tear ducts still functioned. While it was quite possible that Voldemort could be defeated by Harry Potter, how much easier it would be for the Axis of Virtue if Narcissa were to overwhelm him with feelings of inadequacy until he, say, jumped off a cliff. Dumbledore nodded a knowing nod.

"I think," Dumbledore said, "your tear ducts could be a valuable weapon. What did you have in mind in return?"

"Oh, nothing much…"

"If I know my Slytherins, it will be something."

"I'd like to enforce a eugenics policy after Voldemort's defeat. It will be called the Narcissa Marriage Law Challenge, and challenging it shall be indeed. You see, I'm so overwhelmed by ugliness. I really can't bear to live in a world that's so unattractive. I've found that I can minimize my displeasure as far as objects go – I maintain a standard of aesthetic excellence around my own home at least – but there's always the problem of people. People can be most bothersome. You see, if they're really ugly, no "changes over the summer," no makeovers, can make them live up to my standard of physical perfection. It's most bothersome for me, you see. So what I propose is passing a law – you can have Fudge do it, if you want – which prevents ugly people from breeding. All attractive people will be married off to one another, thus producing a race of increasingly beautiful wizards. The ugly people will, needless to say, be castrated.

"Who would act as the arbiter of beauty?" wondered Luna, who seemed curiously undisturbed. Narcissa, after all, had complemented her hats, so she felt nothing very bad would happen to her.

"What a silly question," Narcissa drawled, "I would, naturally."

There was a moment of silence. In that moment everyone in the room seriously assessed their physical characteristics and every one of them decided that they alone were attractive enough to breed. Narcissa sat there and thought about what a service it would be to cast the other three's DNA out of the gene pool.

"Well, that sounds fine to me!" exclaimed Dumbledore, while thinking about how "The Narcissa Marriage Law Challenge" would mean there would be more supple young females running about for him to breed with.

The other two nodded cheerfully. Narcissa felt almost happy. She would be happier, of course, if the other people in the room weren't so ugly, but soon there would be no ugly people anywhere!

Yes, it seemed to be a moment of great – if very bizarre – hope for the Order.

But Dumbledore, Dumbledore in his infinite wisdom, knew that there was one more who would be indispensable in their battle against the Army of Evil. And that one lived in a jar of formaldehyde.

So he crept down stealthily into Snape's office, and approached Trevor in his jar. Trevor wasn't busy; he was just sitting there crying as he'd been doing for the past 72 hours. He couldn't even bring himself to eat the tiny chunks of tapeworm food placed in his jar. Trevor, obviously, was feeling vulnerable. So when Dumbledore leaned down and spoke to him in his own language – Dumbledore didn't publicize it, but he was a Tapletongue – he couldn't resist the offer to join the Side of Light. Later, much later, when the whole affair was long over, Trevor would think to himself that he could have said "no." He could have said "I will not betray the man I love." But at the time all he said was, "Let me strangle Hermione Granger with my intestinal body."


	22. Ashes, Ashes, They All Fall Down

"So," asked Voldemort, "do we have any cookies?"

"We're not here to eat cookies," sighed Hermione, "we're here to plot a magnificent coup."

"I think we're also here to eat cookies!" exclaimed Voldemort. "Because cookies and coups go together like…"

"Cookies and milk?" suggested Severus.

"I think I have some of the double chocolate chip ones in the kitchen," stated Bellatrix.

Voldemort wriggled happily. He was filled with such happiness today! Visions of cookies, Bellatrix bearing his overlord spawn (not now, of course, but one day) and Albus Dumbledore fleeing the burning remnants of Hogwarts with a bayonet lodged securely in his back made him pat his belly with joy. He had no quibbles at all with how Albus would manage to run with a bayonet in his back.

"I like it when we all sit around in our pajamas for these late night talks," he remarked.

"Why are we all wearing pajamas again?" queried Hermione. "I mean really, this is a serious endeavor. This is emphatically _not _just a late night talk, and I think we ought to be dressed a bit more appropriately. In business robes or something. If I'm to be quite frank about it, I feel we're acting like Hufflepuffs at a slumber party."

Voldemort looked a little hurt. Suddenly he felt undignified, and wished he hadn't worn his fuzzy pajamas with the cartoon snakes on them. He had only wanted everyone to be comfortable! The vision of Albus Dumbledore writhing and twitching and dying at his feet seemed far, far away and his belly felt sad and cold again.

Bellatrix returned from the kitchen and shot Hermione a look which clearly conveyed that she killed people for lesser insults. She understood by the way Voldemort was clutching his stomach that his belly was filled with coldness and sorrow. She had learned from her intimate talks with Voldemort that he could often gauge how he was feeling by the relative warmth or coldness of his stomach. She reasoned that his mind must be preoccupied with so many important things that his other organs periodically had served in lieu of it. In any event, she figured that cookies would make Voldemort's stomach warm again, thereby making Voldemort happy.

"Double chocolate chip!" exclaimed Bellatrix, proferring the plate to Voldemort.

"No one takes me seriously anymore," Voldemort whispered to her. To be honest, Voldemort wasn't sure whether anyone had ever taken him seriously, but he felt whispering to Bellatrix, "no one has ever taken me seriously, and they still don't," wouldn't have quite the same effect.

Hermione leaned over on the couch to grab a cookie, seemingly forgetting her earlier qualms about planning sessions devolving into slumber parties. As she moved, her derriere wriggled delightfully in her perfectly plain flannel pajamas.

"I love you in those pajamas," sighed Severus adoringly.

"I couldn't wear them if I were a tapeworm," noted Hermione.

"I love your pajamas too," Voldemort remarked to Bellatrix. He blushed a little. Despite their newfound physical relationship, they were still a bit shy and smitten around each other.

"Technically, these aren't my pajamas," remarked Bellatrix. This fact was quite obvious to anyone who looked closely. It was, in fact, a very sleek green silk ball gown. "It's just something I put on. I sleep in the nude."

Voldemort and Severus both stared at her for a moment.

"She couldn't do that if she were a tapeworm, either, you know," Hermione declared with a great sense of purpose.

"Actually, if she were a tapeworm she would be naked all the time," retorted Severus bitterly. He wished Hermione could just put his former flames behind them.

"What's all this about a tapeworm?" enquired Voldemort.

"Professor Snape has just recently gotten out of a long and committed relationship with his tapeworm familiar," declared Hermione.

"Now, Miss Granger," replied Snape, "you know that isn't precisely true. It may be the case that Trevor, my pet tapeworm, developed some unrequited feelings for me, but I really think…"

"My God," said Voldemort, "you mean you've been having an affair with a tapeworm? That's enormously disturbing. I don't think even Albus Dumbledore would dare to consider an affair with a tapeworm."

"Shh," murmured Bellatrix, "we're supposed to be free spirited bon vivants who go in for that sort of thing. What Voldemort means Sevvie…"

Severus let forth a guttural noise that expressed his unbearable loathing for all the nicknames that had ever been, or ever would be, applied to him. Bellatrix chose to ignore it.

"What Voldemort means, Sevvie," she continued, "is that you should do whatever makes you happy. And if having an affair with a tapeworm is what does it for you, then, I suppose, providing Miss Granger is willing to tolerate it, there's nothing to disapprove of."

"That's admirably bohemian of you, Bella," stated Voldemort, nibbling his cookie approvingly. "Really, I feel that's what the movement is all about. Understanding and empathizing with others lifestyles. Out with the bourgeois ideology of yesteryear, that's what I say! Anyone can have sex with a tapeworm if they want to!"

Severus cast his double chocolate chip cookie down on the table with great fervor. "Now see here," he declared, "you want to know why we haven't taken over the world? It's not because fate is, in some intrinsic way on the side of good; it's because every time we have a meeting it devolves into a discussion of our sex lives. That's why we're so bleeding incompetent!"

"Well, we can't help it that we have such interesting sex lives. Or rather you can't," replied Voldemort.

"We can damn well help talking about them," stated Severus with great vehemence.

"Quite right, Professor Snape," said Hermione.

"You started it with all that business about the tapeworms," retorted Bellatrix.

"It was bad of me," said Hermione, "it shan't happen again."

"Fine," said Voldemort, though it must be admitted that on the inside, Voldemort was very sad indeed. Voldemort felt that now that he was at long last able to find someone who wasn't put off by the fact that he bore a striking resemblance to Satan, and was more than willing to have lots of sex with him, he could accumulate sex tips from his friends. As it was, this meant that he would have to resume approaching witches in the street, introducing himself as Willard the gardener, and asking them what they enjoyed in bed. However women seemed to take some offense at this. In the months to come, Voldemort would hear of the Kinsey report, and begin approaching witches in the street, introducing himself as Willard the Social Scientist, and asking them what they enjoyed in bed. The response would be much improved, but that would be another story.

"So then," stated Bellatrix, "we're going to throw a magnificent coup."

"You don't throw a coup," sighed Severus, "you throw a party. Or a beach ball."

"Ah," replied Bellatrix, "right. So, does anyone have any idea how it's going to go then?"

"Well, I've actually thought this all out," retorted Voldemort, "so you see, Severus, we're not quite as incompetent as some people are wont to believe. We'll begin by charging the grounds of Hogwarts with an enormous army of Death Eaters."

"We don't have an enormous army of Death Eaters," replied Bellatrix. "At last count we had thirty-three."

"That's fine, their little Order of the Phoenix only has about fifteen people or so in it, doesn't it?"

"True," noted Hermione, "but won't they find other people who are living at Hogwarts to help? What with us attacking them and all."

"That's fine," said Voldemort, "we'll just recruit people off the street. We'll tell them it's for a picnic. Everyone loves picnics."

"I could even bring food!" cried Bellatrix.

"Don't you think they'll realize they're not attending a picnic when the residents of Hogwarts start trying to kill them?"

"We could tell them it was a picnic game," suggested Snape. Snape had not been to many picnics.

"People eat crisply delicious slices of watermelon, wear charming straw hats and participate in egg tosses at picnics," declared Hermione, "they don't die in horrible, disemboweling ways."

"But don't you think they sometimes wish they could?" remarked Voldemort. "It would add new spice to their lives and all of that."

"I think that's really poor logic," said Hermione.

Voldemort felt that even the cartoon snakes on his pajamas must be depressed by this point. "Well," he said, "at the very least I think I should demand to duel with Harry Potter. Doubtless the core of our wands will have some bizarre effect, and we will die in unison, thus establishing Harry as some sort of martyr. A valuable lesson will be learned by all..."

"What valuable lesson would that be?" interjected Severus.

"Seemingly," said Bellatrix, "that if you're very, very virtuous you still die, just like evil people. So it's really irrelevant what you do."

"No, no, it has something to do with honor," said Voldemort.

"Honor is a very flimsy concept that's hardly worth considering," sighed Bellatrix. " Besides, I think it's made up by rulers to give their subjects a reason for doing things that would, under any other circumstances, be considered totally idiotic."

"But it sounds good," said Voldemort. "I'm kind of into this honor thing. Though obviously, in this situation, I wouldn't be honored. After the revolution, I'm going put up little plaques every where that say, 'El Elegance Elegante honors y'all real good.' It'll be folksy, and I'll win people over with my strange charm and Texan ways."

"We aren't in Texas," said Severus, "we're in Britain, My Lord. Folksy charms don't hold sway here."

"I think you might take that one up with the Muggle House of Commons, my boy," retorted Voldemort.

"But you'd be dead," stated Hermione, who'd lost track of the last bit of conversation given to her comparative lack of interest in international politics, "and that wouldn't do any of us any good."

"Death is fleeting but honor is forever!" replied Voldemort.

"What?" replied Hermione. "First of all, you're the not the one being honored. You wouldn't be dying for honor, you'd be dying to give someone else honor, which isn't a terribly bright idea. And second, death isn't fleeting, it's permanent. As Moliere says, 'We die only once, but for such a long time.' I know truth can be sacrificed for the sake of a maxim, but don't just throw up those statements and assume that if you put proper emphasis on them we'll all believe them. Because we won't, Willard, we won't."

Severus beamed. Hermione had finally put down her torrid tales for his highbrow literature! Though, he had to admit, he'd come to appreciate the alliteration of the former. The alliteration, and the sex up against a dungeon wall scenes, which one day, when his back was in better condition, he hoped to attempt with Hermione.

Voldemort snarled. Then he said, in a surprisingly calm voice, "Has everyone here forgotten them I'm Wizarding world's evil overlord? I know that the plethora of names can be confusing, but give me a little credit. I don't like to flaunt it – and I'm perfectly willing to play dumb so as not to alienate the masses - but I really am quite brilliant. And I'd like to be taken seriously."

A languorous hush descended upon the room.

"Right, then," replied Bellatrix, "I think we can all do that."

"Well, I'm glad that's cleared up," said Voldemort, "now you," he turned to Severus, "underling, pass me a cookie. No, not that one, Severus. That one has a disproportionate number of chocolate chips on the left side. As Dark Lord I prefer an equal distribution of chocolate chips."

"So," said Hermione, who now felt quite humbled, "what idea did you have in mind?"

"I think we should be canny. Canny like canny things."

"That's a fine plan," said Hermione, "though I think the analogy may be a little wanting. How about 'canny like a kneazel?'"

"Did you not hear him earlier?" said Bellatrix, "We're all going to respect him, and if he wants to say "canny like a canny thing,' I say that's quite all right."

"Actually, no, that's silly. I was just bluffing a bit there," said Voldemort. "I think I'm going to go back to eating cookies and plotting horrible yet fantastic and highly unrealistic revenges against my enemies. You three carry on with this business of planning,"

"But I don't know anything about how to take over a school," sighed Hermione.

"To be fair, in the past we haven't been all that successful at it ourselves," replied Voldemort.

"I think we should kill them all," said Bellatrix calmly. "I'll just systematically go through every room killing the inhabitants. Then, with Hogwarts firmly under our control, you can demand control of the Ministry as well."

"But then people would be dead," said Hermione nervously.

"Yes, well, that's kind of the point," declared Bellatrix.

"I don't approve of murder," said Hermione.

"If you don't like it, then you shouldn't do it. I support that. Of course, somebody has to, and on occasion I'm willing to be that person."

"No, I don't think I could deal with that. We ought to do something else," said Hermione.

"Well, we have to do something. Soon the situation in Hogwarts will be under control and no one will be too frenzied to react to us. We must strike!" exclaimed Severus.

"Well, has anyone any ideas?" Enquired Voldemort.

Suddenly a knock was heard at the door. An unmistakable knock, with a certain plastic quality.

"It's Lucius!" squealed Bellatrix, and rushed to the door.

Lucius Malfoy entered, sweeping his curtain of unnaturally blonde hair back. He was dashing in his tailored robes, his impeccable hat, and bright pink socks. Honestly, he'd never quite recovered from Dobby making off with his favorite pair, but he was trying to move on, and hoped one day to find another pair as flamboyant as the one Dobby had gotten a hold of. The only aspect of his outfit that one could really find fault with though, was the cane. Not many people knew it, but if you looked closely, you could see a tiny "Made in China" label engraved in it. Lucius, aware that his reputation as an arbiter elegante would be demolished if anyone ever found out, never let his cane out of his sight.

"Lucius," exclaimed Bellatrix, "it's so nice to see you! I'm so glad you escaped from Azkaban. We kept meaning to free you, but it's been so busy. We thought about it a lot though."

"Quite. Why are you all in your pajamas?" asked Lucius crisply.

"We're having a planning session," said Bellatrix, "you should join us."

"I have," Lucius said, breathing meaningfully, "great news. But first, it might be of interest to you that I ran into your husband. Apparently, he just got back from Mongolia."

"Oh," said Bellatrix without any trace of emotion "is he here?"

"I brought him with me."

"Where is he?"

"In the hallway, I presume."

"Excuse me for just one moment."

Bellatrix left the room. A few moments later a horrible, blood curdling scream resounded throughout the hall. Bellatrix walked back in, picking imaginary lint of her robes. "Such a pity," she drawled, "Rudolphus had to leave so suddenly. Apparently he was quite taken with Mongolia. He's going to teach the natives Arithmancy. I imagine that should take, well, a lifetime or so. I'm heartbroken, of course, but who am I to deny basic life skills to the Mongolian populous. Tra-la-la, life goes on, I suppose. And what was your news, Lucius?"

"I've just come from Hogwarts. I've single-handedly slaughtered all the teachers, and the students have surrendered unconditionally. The Potter boy is dead as well, as far as I can gauge from an overdose of prescription medication. He serves as an important reminder to young people that they should not do drugs, even if they have a lightning bolt scar that really, really hurts.

Everyone seemed shocked. Hermione's eyes rapidly became as large as Dobby's. Severus's ghostly pallor turned a whiter shade of pale than any folk singer could imagine. Even Bellatrix, impenetrable in her dignity, was surprised enough to drop to the floor the cookies she had been holding. Only Voldemort seemed nonplussed. Years later, people would say that this ability to keep himself together in the most extraordinary situations was what made him the best Dark Lord ever. Others said that it just made him uniquely unobservant, but to Hell with them.

"So," he said, "that must have made you hungry. Would you like a cookie?"

"Umm, well, yes, actually," replied Lucius.

"Good. Sit down and have a cookie and tell us all about it."


	23. Danse Macabre

"So," said Voldemort, "I really think that perhaps an explanation is very much in order."

"Do you?" replied Lucius. "Well, I rather think some fawning adoration would be in order."

"Pardon?" said Bellatrix.

"I wiped out all of Hogwarts!"

"Technically, only the Professors," replied Voldemort, "and we've already offered you cookies."

"Well for God's sake," retorted Lucius, "is that it? Where are the eccentric socks I've come to expect? Where are my countless galleons? Where are my screaming fans? Where's my castle in Scotland? Quite frankly, why, after escaping from jail and gaining a stupendous victory for our cause, should I be accorded less respect than authors of certain children's books? For years I've been hunting this victory like a Dragon, and now I've come to you, I've laid it's carcass at your feet, and you repay me with… cookies?"

"Really good cookies," Voldemort noted. "I'll even let you have one with the chocolate chips evenly distributed. I'm not sure you're aware of this, but an even distribution of chocolate chips marks the official cookie of a Dark Lord."

"Are you out of your mind?" asked Lucius.

Bellatrix and Voldemort exchanged a meaningful look. They both wanted desperately to be seen as the craziest villains who ever crazed, but couldn't tell people that, as the test of insanity is not knowing you are insane yourself. Thus, if they told anyone, everyone would know they were perfectly sane, just cute and eccentric, and they would never inspire fear, only fluff and cuddles.

"You call me mad, lad?" asked Voldemort. Voldemort liked the slight quality of a muggle high school production of _Brigadoon _that his unorthodox phrasing brought into that sentence. Also, the fact that mad and lad rhymed. Bellatrix nudged him approvingly.

"No, no," replied Lucius, "I know you're not actually mad. Incompetence, after all, isn't a true mark of madness. The vast majority of the world is incompetent. I, however, am more competent than anything."

Voldemort and Bellatrix sighed in unison.

"So, then," murmured Lucius, rubbing his hands together, "I see you want an explanation. Will I be rewarded after such an explanation?"

"You might get another cookie," said Voldemort. "I think you'd best just tell us regardless though. Otherwise no one will ever believe you."

"The ventilation duct," declared Lucius proudly. "I put vaporized arsenic in the ventilation duct. I lured all the children outside. I told them it was a picnic!"

"We had that idea, too!" squealed Bellatrix.

"Well, not the ventilation duct," replied Voldemort, "just the picnic part. Please, do go on."

"Actually, that was more or less it," replied Lucius. "I'm sorry there wasn't more."

"You wanted Caligulan rewards in exchange for a three sentence explanation?" queried Voldemort.

"Quite frankly, yes, yes I did," retorted Lucius.

"And Harry Potter," murmured Severus oblivious to the rest of the conversation, "he's dead."

"Drug overdose. I actually thought it might have been some of the arsenic, but I honestly don't know if that child hadn't already been exposed to so much in the way of illegal chemical substances that arsenic might not have had any effect on him. Downing a whole bottle of Vicodin though, that had an effect. Too bad. I would have brought him to Voldemort to act as some sort of odd little marionette or baker of cookies, or whatever your nefarious plans for him were, but it seems he's out of the way entirely now. Quite a relief, I think, as far as we're concerned."

"Dead…" whispered Hermione.

"Well, he's no great loss, honestly," said Severus. "I mean, if an impartial observer were to watch Hogwarts, they'd certainly prefer to pay attention to, oh, say, Hermione and myself, than to that Potter brat. I imagine that one could forget about Harry Potter almost entirely, as our lives are so much more interesting."

"I always thought you secretly liked him and were trying to defend him," replied Hermione.

"No, actually, I've always thought he was a bit of a dolt. And very unpleasant to me personally. I had very little cause to like him. Pity, of course, but these things do happen."

"These things do happen?" replied Hermione. "These _things _do _happen?" _She began to cry. And the glorious spirit of irony and detachment that had hovered and glimmered about the quartet for such a long time suddenly evaporated.

"Oh, don't cry," said Bellatrix, "it'll make you all puffy. Just imagine what Narcissa would say."

"Actually, Narcissa is dead too," replied Lucius.

"You don't seem very unhappy about it," said Bellatrix.

"I think it may be for the best – I recently discovered that she was about to put a fearsome eugenics policy into action, wherein she would castrate certain people according to her whims. It's kind of creepy, when you think about it. People who design laws like that have it within them to wreck havoc on a whole multitude of people."

"Mmm," said Bellatrix, eating a cookie.

"Have you people no sense of decency?" cried Hermione. "You were her sister! And you her husband!"

"I've said this before and I'll say it again," said Bellatrix, "it's not how many people you kill; it's how you treat the people who are alive. Besides, we've known so many people we've liked a great deal – much more than anyone dead at the moment – that it's lost some of its novelty. Please forgive us if we're touched with a modicum of compassion fatigue."

"Hermione," said Voldemort, "you should be happy. We've won! Now we can institute all the programs we hoped to! Elfton will be known the whole world over! Elves will be given rights! Dementors will be given… happy things! Risks as to muggle exposure will be significantly lessened! Dance! Dance! Dance!"

Voldemort clasped Bellatrix in his skeletal arms and they broke into a feisty polka. The hurling motions were incredibly difficult for Voldemort in his current reptilian body, but they were more or less able to keep the pace. Lucius clapped his hands in a way that would have been in time to the music, if there were music, which there wasn't. If someone had been so inclined – and certainly, no one would have been – Bellatrix's skirt lifted in such a way that one could see her underpants, upon which she had meticulously written Voldemort's name over and over in black felt pen. Had Hermione seen that fateful sight, she would have wondered whether it was possible to love one human (or Snake Lord) more intensely, if you treated the rest of humanity with blatant disregard. It was quite possible thi was the case. Because there could be absolutely no contesting either Voldemort or Bellatrix's pure, radiant happiness and adoration of each other at the moment of their victory – they lit up the room as if they were electric.

Hermione sat back in her chair and wondered to herself, 'How can two people, two people be so happy, when it's practically the end of the world? Maybe those people they killed were a little odd, and maybe they did have odd affairs with goats, but did they deserve to die for it?"

Severus, meanwhile, sat silently in his chair thinking to himself, "I wonder if Miss Granger is being all sullen because we are not dancing the polka? Perhaps I should ask her, though I would, frankly, find the act of polka-ing somewhat beneath my dignity. Also, after copulating, and now that our side has achieved victory, shouldn't Miss Granger and I be on a first name basis?"

Lucius curled up in his chair, eating a cookies and thinking to himself, "Seriously? Cookies? I'm convinced I fought for the wrong side."

Suddenly Hermione hurled herself frantically on top of Lucius in a non-sexual way, pummeling his body furiously with her fists. "How could you," she cried, "they were decent. They were perfectly good people!"

Lucius sighed. He did hate scenes, it was part of his aristocratic demeanor, "Ah," he said, "to do a great right, I do a little wrong."

"What?" replied Hermione, leaving off pummeling in pure wonder.

"_The Merchant of Venice_," mumbled Voldemort, who was in the process of dancing the polka, and consuming cookies, and identifying the source of Lucius's quotes, all at once, "it's Shakespeare. Now how about this, 'Politics have no relation to morals.'"

"That's Machiavelli," said Severus, somewhat delighted that they were going to play quote games.

"Oh, you give us one, Sevvie," said Bellatrix, equally delighted with the turn of events.

"Alright," said Severus thoughtfully, "how's this then, 'the only immorality is not to do what one has to do when one has to do it.'"

"Oh, I just read that someplace," sighed Bellatrix gnawing on her thumbnail, "Oh, wait! It's Jean Anouih, isn't it?"

There was general clapping throughout the room.

"Is this all some sort of game to you people?" asked Hermione. "I mean, genuinely, have you no decency? At long last, have you no decency?" She fled the room, disgusted, vowing to leave the Wizarding World, in which so much evil abounded, forever.

The rest of the room fell silent once more.

"Actually," Voldemort remarked pensively, "that last bit she said, that was a quote. Do you think that was intentional? Perhaps she was only joking."

"She certainly is a high strung girl," said Lucius. "I mean, you kill one measly staff at one measly school, and people get all worked up over it."

"Did she not expect us to be happy?" wondered Bellatrix.

"I'm going to run after her in a grand dramatic gesture in just a moment," said Severus, "but before I go, Lucius, would you happen to know what happened to my tapeworm? Trevor?"

"I suppose he's dead," replied Lucius.

"Oh. Pity, that," replied Severus, before grabbing his cloak and sprinting off in a grand, dramatic gesture.

Two days later, Severus would see Trevor's empty jar of formaldehyde, and he would weep precisely two tears before continuing his search for Hermione.

But Trevor wasn't dead. Trevor had pulled his tiny wormy body desperately through the grounds around Hogwarts. He had seen Albus Dumbledore fall dead in the potions room, and had enough common sense to know that it must be credited to some sort of weaponized gas. Everyone else must be dead too, then! He would never kill Hermione. He would – oh Great Tapeworm God – never see Severus again. But for now, his thoughts turned to formaldehyde! He had to find formaldehyde, or else he would die! Formaldehyde or else a human intestinal tract! He felt his innards crippling about him. He lay, gasping little tapeworm gasps by the side of the pond, ready to go up to that great intestinal tract in the sky, when the giant squid came over to him. "Trevor," the squid murmured, "you know I love you. I've always loved you. There's never been anyone for me but you, you little tapeworm, you."

"Go away," cried Trevor, "the man I love is dead. There's nothing left for me now. Just let me die in peace."

"Trevor," said the Squid, whose name, incidentally, was Squiggly, "you may not know this, but my body very closely resembles an intestinal tract. I can save your life and you can live inside me, little buddy, oh, love of my life."

"Please," moaned Trevor, "I don't want to live with you. I just want my Severus…"

Squiggly hesitated for a moment, and tried to figure out whether he could live with someone whom he loved so deeply, whom he knew would never love him. He thought of leaving then, but he knew that a world without Trevor the Tapeworm would be as black and inky as the ink he shot out of his body. And, so, at that moment, he made a choice to absorb Trevor into his own body.

So Trevor was not dead. He only he only wished he were. And for the longest time, all Trevor could do was think about Severus, and pine for Severus, and fantasize about Severus, who, in this case, quite literally, didn't know he was alive. Sometimes, never knowing that Snape had only shed two tears for him, he would imagine that Severus was out there, combing the earth searching for him. It was a fantasy that kept him alive for that first difficult year. But after that, he began to listen to the stories Squiggly told. And while he couldn't compare with the low silky timbre of Snape's voice, after a while Trevor came to realize that Squiggly made him laugh – or as close as he could come to a laugh while underwater, and living as a parasite inside a squid. He was also very easy to talk to. It didn't happen all at once, but over the course of the next five years, Trevor's grudging acceptance of Squiggly turned into respect, and from respect into friendship, and out that friendship bubbled a greater love than either one had ever thought possible. And one fine day they copulated, in the way squids and tapeworms are wont to do such things. They waited for Trevor to get pregnant, and give birth to their bizarre interspecies child, but this did not happen, as they were both males. Finally, they decided to cast away their primitive attachments to both their races, and adopt a first year Ravenclaw orphan named Mei Ling, after Trevor explained that if she didn't get herself some parents soon, she would either die of a drug overdose, or become an evil overlord. Mei Ling, needless to say, went on to have a most strange and extraordinary life, but that is another story.


	24. Let Us Go Then, You and I

Hermione had frankly thought that, after staying in her old room at Hogwarts for three days, someone would have found her. It seemed the most obvious place for her to stay – especially given that she had no other home in the Wizarding World. Of course, for all technical purposes, Hogwarts was off limits to students, what with the Elfton educated elves painting intricate, fascinating frescos about their enslavement, and how Dumbledore used them as peons, and made them speak in a strange colloquial dialect, ignoring their intensive Liberal Arts backgrounds. Hermione really felt she ought to be happy about Voldemort commissioning elves to paint the halls of Hogwarts, but she had thought that when they became free they'd be happier, and less likely to brandish paint brushes at her and say that she didn't understand the breadth of their aesthetic intent. As she packed her suitcase she mumbled to herself, "I never would have bothered with SPEW if I had known they'd all turn out to be Narcissa Malfoys."

Not that Hermione would be bothering with SPEW, or indeed with house-elves, ever again. For Hermione was leaving this Wizarding World which had treated her and Harry so brutally. She couldn't live in a world where a dark power like Voldemort reigned. Hermione was not yet ready to deal with the fact that it was really only the lack of safe, legal painkillers for migraine headaches that had lead to Harry's brutal demise. Or, more to the point, the fact that she had begun giving him semi-legal painkillers. Better to blame it on Voldemort.

But as Hermione sat on the end of her bed, cradling her suitcase, she suddenly wondered what she was to do with herself now. Truth be told, she had no skills that would help her in the muggle world; having had no math classes since the age of ten, and thus barely able to do long division, a career in business was ruled out. What, oh, what would she do?

A house-elf walked in, and declared, "I've come to paint this room. I'm going to capture the lewd and filthy acts Dumbledore committed with goats. It'll be done in a kind of Gothic style."

"Go away, elf," said Hermione, "I'm trying to have a poignant moment of silent reverie."

"I don't really like the term elf. I prefer cognizant creature of disadvantaged stature."

"You are an _elf_," declared Hermione through gritted teeth, before promptly burying her head in her hands and sobbing. What had become of her politically correct instincts?

"Philistine hoyden," muttered the elf, or cognizant creature of disadvantaged stature, depending on how much it matters to you.

Hermione sprawled out on the bed. Suddenly she thought, "Why, I bet I'm quite fetching now, sprawled out on this bed!" She attempted to strike poses in a manner, which, to the untrained eye, made it look as though she was having some kind of spasm. Then she saw her neon pink heels and strange molting outfit still hanging in the closet. "Why," thought Hermione, "with this body and those shoes, I have all I need to become a really seedy prostitute!" Then Hermione remembered that being a prostitute meant having sex with people you didn't like. Really unattractive people that you didn't like. Minerva McGonagall would have been happy to have explained that to her. Minerva McGonagall actually knew a thing or two about it, as she'd once had sex with a man she couldn't stand in the hopes that he would shut up about Arithmancy (it was a dismal failure – he began talking about it again immediately afterwards). She'd found it to be, at the least, very boring and somewhat demeaning. McGonagall would have _loved _to have explained that to her. But McGonagall couldn't. Because she was dead.

Hermione did know that, if she became a prostitute, inevitably somewhere down the line she probably would end up being rescued from her lifestyle by Professor Snape. But that could take a really long time. She'd probably have syphilis by then. It seemed like it would be easier to be rescued if she just waited in a coffee shop for a while. Certainly it would carry less risk of contracting unfortunate sexually transmitted diseases.

So, then, she stuck her little chin out proudly and vowed not to give into the societal pressures that would lead her to a career in prostitution. She would have to forge off into the wild ravages of the muggle world armed only with two financially secure parents, a genius IQ, and a hell of an idea for a series of children's books. And without even the hope of rescue by Snape to fall back on! How would she bear it?

She would bear it the way Narcissa Malfoy would have told her to bear it, had Narcissa survived. "I will don this obscenely elaborate red dress to depart the Wizarding World," murmured Hermione, pulling on the dress that her beloved Professor Snape had sent her. The elf re-emerged, "Get out," he said, "I really want to paint this room. Honestly, does being commissioned by Voldemort mean nothing to you?"

"I'm going, I'm going," snarled Hermione, "Goodbye old dear Wizarding world…"

"Say goodbye at the bus station," replied the elf, "I've got work to do."

Hermione walked through the rainy streets in her red dress, which, since it was not intended to be rained on, was getting quickly ruined. "God, I can't believe it's raining," thought Hermione, "really, this is _such _a cliché." All around her she couldn't help noticing the dementors hooked up to I.V.s filled with Serotonin, planting yellow roses along the streets. Periodically, they would swing their I.V.s about in a spontaneous dance of joy. Or else, they would dance with each other, sometimes abandoning their task of planting yellow roses all together to skip along the streets, frightening small children. Some had even spoken of discarding their black robes in favor of tangerine colored ones, to help spread the joy – or at least the chemically induced joy – that El Elegance Elegante had brought to their lives since taking over the Wizarding World. Occasionally In future years, after dementor offspring had forgotten what it was like before Serotonin was pumped into their bodies at all times, a dementor would decide that they wanted to experience life without medication. As they inevitably went on a rampage terrorizing all those in their wake, this would generally be discouraged, and eventually stopped altogether.

Hermione sighed as she finally reached the bus stop. She sat down under a tree – covered with baubles, as had been decreed by Voldemort – and read the inscription which stated that it was the El Elegance Elegante and Bellatrix kissing tree. Hermione spent the next few moments wondering how it had all come to this – dancing dementors and gainfully employed elves, and, if that weren't enough, baubled kissing trees on every block.

A couple who would doubtless have been acceptable under the Narcissa Marriage Law, skipped joyfully across the street. Hermione contemplated ripping ornaments off the tree and throwing them at them, then wondered how it was possible that her time spent in the Wizarding world could have been so disastrous. At the end of her first year she had assumed that by now she'd have created potions to save the world from the terror that was Voldemort, and have had that sexy potion Professor Snape pledge eternal devotion to her. Hell, she thought she'd have had impressively orgasmic sex with Professor Snape at the least. And while she would admit that they had had sex – and that yes, she was in love with him – it hadn't been more orgasmic than the sex of the mass multitude of mere mortals. And he'd never pledged eternal love (and he never would); they weren't even on a first name basis. And yet, it had been nice, in parts, she thought. If she weren't fleeing the Wizarding world never to return, they might have had a very happy life together, reading their books side by side, brushing one another's fingers as they turned the pages. Hermione, who'd been raised on notions of being "madly in love" and who was, by her nature, very sane indeed, didn't recognize that that was as good as most loves ever got. Bellatrix and Voldemort might have surpassed it, but they had more aptitude for, if not madness, at least whimsy.

"I don't care, really," muttered Hermione to herself. "I shall have a perfectly fine life as a receptionist in a dentist's office. A perfectly _fine _life," she reiterated firmly.

"Mommy, mommy," said a little boy named Tommy across the street, "that lady is talking to herself. Is she Eastern European, too?"

"No," replied Tommy's mother, "I think it's possible that she's just crazy. She's wearing a ball gown in mid-afternoon when she's waiting for a bus. That spells crazy to me, Tommy."

Tommy would require a lot of therapy when he grew up, which Severus, Hermione, and the Death Eaters at large would not graciously offer to pay for. Which was just as well, as eventually he would publish a best selling non-fiction novel entitled, _Crazy or only Eastern European: Why Someone from Hungary Would Want to Eat My Ears, and The Woman at the Bus Stop is A Psychopath. _

Hermione, had she heard Tommy or his mother would have wished that they were correct. How much easier it would be to be mad! How else would she ever reconcile herself to this brave new world? In her state of sanity it seemed quite impossible.

"Excuse me," said a figure from behind her, "that bus line doesn't run anymore."

"Oh," replied Hermione glumly, "are you sure?"

"Positive," said the man, and Hermione couldn't help noticing the low silky timbre of his voice. She twirled around. "Professor Snape!" she exclaimed.

"Miss Granger," he replied, taking a seat next to her on the bench.

"Well," said Hermione, "I suppose there isn't much to say, really."

"No," said Professor Snape, "I suppose there isn't."

There was a long period of silence as they sat on the bus-stop, watching the cars pass, until Professor Snape finally declared, "You know, Miss Granger, it's rather absurd. I've spent all this time running everywhere looking for you. I even visited the Weasleys, but of course they weren't too thrilled to see me. And I had all these ideas of things that I could say to you, but now, now that we're actually here…"

"I know," replied Hermione, "it's rubbish isn't it? I did have all these ideas of things I could say to you if I ever met you again. I lay awake at night thinking about them, but now, I can't say anything at all."

"Right. Well, you're perhaps a more articulate sort than I am. And you have all that Gryffindor courage. Can you remember anything you thought of saying?"

"Well, I thought of calling you a fucking bastard. And hitting you. I mean, when somebody's friend – somebody's close friend – has died, you don't just sit there and act as though it's not such a big deal. You show a little sympathy as a decent human being." Hermione paused for a second. Then she slapped him and said, "You bastard!" The explanation beforehand and the second delay before the action was carried out robbed the slap of all its dramatic effect.

"My response was going to be quite different," replied Severus, rubbing his cheek.

"Well?" said Hermione.

"No, I don't believe I'll tell you now. I came here in good faith, and you repaid me with cruelty."

"Don't be such an ass," replied Hermione.

"Fine," replied Snape, "I wanted to say that I care about you."

"You care about me," replied Hermione, "you _care _about me? You care about a cat or a frog you… love… another person."

"I don't know that I'm fully comfortable with that word," replied Severus, and, in truth, he never would be.

"Fine" replied Hermione, "Fine, I think you've made your point. I did care about you, but not now, that I know that you only care about me. So just go away. I'm going to the muggle world."

"I'm sorry," said Severus, and he said it with absolute sincerity. "Miss Granger, I am truly, truly sorry. But can't our lives still go on together? I know it's not perfect, but I don't think it's often perfect. You see, I just like you. I like you and I want to be around you as often as I can. I think this is the most trite I've ever been."

Hermione paused, "Aren't you going to say something sarcastic, just for good measure?" she asked.

"If you honestly feel that way, then I'll just go." And he walked away, receding into the horizon. Hermione buried her head in her hands and she wept. Because she did like him, and she did just want to be around him as much as possible.

"Well, really Miss Granger," sighed Professor Snape, "won't you stop being such a stupid little dunderhead and come get a cup of coffee with me? There's a marvelous Starbucks across the street."

"Oh," sighed Hermione, blowing her nose in her sleeve, "what the hell? But we'd have to talk. Things need to be addressed."

"Very well. We have all the time in the world. If I didn't think it was a cliché to quote T.S. Eliot, I'd say time for you and time for me, before the taking of toast and tea."

"A life measured in coffee spoons. "Prufrock." I like it."

"Very good. I've taught you quite a bit then. And they say I'm a bad teacher."

"Well, some things. This doesn't mean I don't think you're a bastard, you know."

"This doesn't mean I don't think you're a stupid little dunderhead."

"Oh. Alright then. Good we've got that cleared up." And they smiled at each other, and linked arms, and walked off to Starbucks.

And they lived happily, and unhappily, but always together, ever after.

THE END

A/N: I hope all my readers have enjoyed this as much as I've enjoyed your lovely reviews and you don't find the ending TOO clichéd. I'm abandoning Harry Potter fan fiction – at least for a while – though, if any of you enjoyed this to the extent that you crave more parodies (I am about to pimp my original fiction shamelessly) I'm in the midst of a novel length parody of the recent college novels (particularly _I Am Charlotte Simmons._) I'm afraid it may be more esoteric than this, but if it appeals to you, by all means drop a note at Jennifer. And thanks for reading!


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